


Confessions of a Teenage Sugar Queen

by kdinthecity



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-11-22 13:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11381277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdinthecity/pseuds/kdinthecity
Summary: When unresolved issues from home life collide with the pressures of being a high-achieving student, Katara finds comfort in the most unexpected of circumstances. Dating someone was the last thing on her mind, but there is understanding in his words, warmth in his embrace, and a story behind his scars, she knows. It may take all summer, but she is determined to find out. Zuko is no open book, but he soon discovers just how well Katara can read him.





	1. Fired Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zutara Week 2017, Day One: Fire Lady

“I can’t wait until summer!” A blur of orange brushes past me in the school hallway. “I’m gonna go hang gliding and kite surfing and eat ice cream for breakfast and donuts for lunch!”

That would be Aang. He lives with his head in the clouds on most days.

“Let me guess. Cream puffs for dinner, Twinkletoes?”

Toph is pretty solid for a freshman. She keeps Aang grounded when he starts to get too flighty. I like hanging out with them, but sometimes their immaturity annoys me. I can tell this is one of those moments. No one can eat dessert all day. Talk about a serious sugar crash.

“What about you, Sugar Queen?” Toph asks.

I don’t know why she calls me that. OK, maybe I suggested _once_ that I could survive solely on fudgsicles and moon pies, but that was only after that bad breakup with Jet. Toph elbows me hard in the ribs, her usual gesture for getting my attention.

“Oww! I have plans this summer, alright? I can’t just goof off. I’m going to get a job and do something that matters for my future!” I hate how haughty that sounds, but I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. I hurry past them before I say anything I might regret.

“Geez, what’s with her?” Toph mutters. Aang sighs airily in response.

They just don’t get it.

* * *

I’m the only sophomore to participate in the school’s summer internship fair this year. My brother calls me crazy. Well, I think _he’s_ crazy because as a junior, it’s his last opportunity to gain this experience for college applications. Yet, he’s blowing it off to go fishing in Alaska with Dad. Maybe Sokka will end up taking over the family business, but I know he’d rather pursue engineering than commercial fishing.

The truth is, Dad cannot provide for our college tuition with his income. Sokka doesn’t think about these things, but I do. I’m getting an internship this summer so I can help pay for stuff like clothes and school lunches. And then hopefully I’ll get a scholarship for a top tier school like Atlas University. I will not be a burden to anyone.

“But what do you mean I can’t get any of the paid internships?” I am nearly in tears as I approach Principal Pakku.

“I’m sorry, Katara, but you’re under the legal working age. You can apply for one of the volunteer positions.”

“I’m a hard worker! And a straight A student!” I want to add that I’d do a better job than half the junior class.

He folds his arms across his chest. “Rules are rules.”

The pale blue of his suit starts to blur in my vision, and my bottom lip trembles, but I refuse to cry in front of this man. “But I'm turning 16 this summer!” My birthday is actually at the end of August. Had I not gone to Montessori kindergarten, I would be an entire grade younger according to the age cutoff for public school.

Ms. Yugoda, the school nurse, senses my distress. “Katara, sweetheart, it will still look good on your college applications, and it will help you land a top notch internship for next year. You still have time.”

“But, I need… the experience.” I will not beg for money.

“There’s nothing I can do.” Principal Pakku claps his hands and rubs them together as if that settles the matter. “I’ll put in a good word for you. How about… the zoo?”

I brush the back of my sleeve across dampened cheeks and stomp my foot. “I do not want to be scooping up ostrich-horse shit all summer!”

The principal’s expression is scolding, but I can’t stand the look of pity Ms. Yugoda is giving me right now. Before I have a chance to apologize for my outburst, Ty Lee sweeps in from the adjoining door that leads to the nurse’s office.

She hooks a bandaged arm through my elbow and escorts me out into the hallway. “What’s an ostrich horse? Sounds… magical!”

Her high-pitched giggle grates on my last nerve. An ostrich horse happens to be an imaginary animal from this fictional world I created. Sometimes I write about characters with amazing abilities to bend the elements. For me, I've always wanted to control water—like command the waves, summon the tides. My earliest memories are of Mom at the beach, so…

“Katara?” The knitted brow and slight frown look out of place on Ty Lee.

“Sorry.”

“You can always join the circus with me!”

“Right.”

I should have asked her what happened to her arm, but apparently I am too self-absorbed today to care about my friends.

* * *

“The Marine Science Center has a few openings. Here, take a brochure and see if anything interests you. We are a non-profit organization, so we can’t pay our interns unfortunately, but sometimes our students come back to work for us after they graduate.” The woman has an almost ethereal look about her.

“So… I wouldn’t be cleaning up seal sh—poop? I mean, it’s OK. I just don’t want to do that the whole time.” I cringe, but she smiles.

“No, no. That’s not really a valuable learning experience, is it? I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Yue.”

“Katara. Nice to meet you.”

“So, we have a position that works with the medical staff. Most of the marine animals we treat are sick or injured, so we nurse them back to health, tag them, and set them free. Another position studies the water, looking for contaminants and identifying potential threats, like factory pollution, for example. Then, you can work on a government petition to shut those facilities down or enforce environmental safety regulations. And lastly, we have a group that goes to schools, summer camps, and museums to talk about all these things.”

I skim my fingers across the panels of the tri-fold brochure as she speaks. _Rehabilitate. Advocate. Educate._ I always swore I would never go into fishing, but this is different. I care about the environment. I even organized a beach cleanup day as a community service event for the honor society. (This is how I know the juniors are lazy dipshits.) And I want to be either a professor or a doctor when I grow up, so the experience would be relevant. I take an application, give her my best smile, and express my sincere interest in the positions.

I sign up for a few other things before deciding I’m done. There isn’t much interest in the unpaid internships, and my eyes are drawn to the crowd on the other side of the gym. The largest group gathers at the table for Future Fire Technology. I've heard quite a bit about the company because the CEO’s daughter is in the honor’s track with me. Azula talks nonstop about how the former weapons company has rebranded and now manufactures cutting edge robotics. I couldn’t care less.

Azula will undoubtedly secure a position at her father’s company for the summer. She’s ambitious like that. Her brother, Zuko, will likely work there, too. He strikes me as different somehow—not really the corporate type. He’s not one of the half-assed juniors, though. He’s still pretty intense. I’m a little intrigued by him, but Sokka warns me to leave him be. Well, Sokka can’t tell me who I can and cannot talk to… I just wish I could get up the nerve to… _oh monkeyfeathers!_

“There aren’t many sophomores here, y’know,” a voice rasps. Zuko is standing right here. Talking to me. Sokka says he never talks to _anyone_.

“I, uhhh…” I want to slap my forehead for being such a blubbering idiot.

“I saw you at the Marine Science Center table. Sounds cool, huh?”

He was… watching me? The pink that rises to his cheeks would indicate that yes... yes, he was. I'm dying to ask about that mysterious scar across his left eye, but I guess that won’t make the best first impression.

“Katara,” I say.

“What?” he asks, his single brow raised in confusion.

“I’m Katara.” I hold out my hand like a dork.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Zuko.”

We are now shaking hands. Like dorks.

“And yes.” I clear my throat. “The Marine Science Center looks cool. I hope I get it.”

* * *

The results are posted the following week. With everyone crowded around the bulletin board outside the gym, it feels like we’re clamoring to see who’s made the basketball team or the cheerleading squad. I’m the only sophomore and of average height, so it takes me a while to wiggle my way to the front so I can see.

There are three names listed for the Marine Science Center.

Me! I got the position I wanted!

Then, Hahn. I don’t really know him, only that Sokka hates him, which should be interesting.

And… Zuko?

I scan the crowd for his unmistakable face, but he’s nowhere to be found. I can’t help but notice the red-clad crew off to the right, however. Azula, Ty Lee, and Mai are all on our school’s beach volleyball team. Either they just came from practice, are headed to a game, or just want an excuse to wear their uniform. Two seniors, Ruon Jion and Chan, hover nearby, enjoying the view. Ty Lee offers a shy wave when she catches my eye.

“Congrats to the newest Future Fire Lady!” Azula salutes Mai.

The dark-haired girl simply huffs. “But Zuko won’t be there. He got some stupid job at a water park.”

I fight the urge to march right up to her and emphasize how respectable and meaningful the _Marine Science Center_ internship is, but the look on Ty Lee’s face stops me. Her bottom lip protrudes in a full-on pout, and I remember that she told me about Mai’s childhood crush. Apparently it is one-sided, and everyone wishes she would just get over it. Mai's scowl confirms that I should let it go.

“Of course Father wouldn’t give him a job after the _equipment malfunction_ last year.” Everything Azula says comes out like a sneer. “He’s such a disgrace to the family. We need someone who is competent and level-headed in the company, Mai. Not lovesick and forlorn. Should I retract my recommendation I made to Father?”

Even though she’s shaking her head, I swear I hear Mai mumble _bitch_ under her breath. For some reason, I am mesmerized by the exchange. The crowd finally thins out as everyone heads to class. With only two weeks left of school, the summer will be here before we know it. And I will be nursing injured seals back to health with _Zuko?_

Toph nudges me with her elbow. “Hey Sugar Queen. Watch your back, will ya?”

“What? Why?”

She’s gone before I can ask what the hell she’s talking about.


	2. Underwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zutara Week 2017, Day Two: Underwater

The Memorial Day holiday weekend marks the end of school and beginning of summer. Ozai—excuse me, _Mr. Kasai_ , ever so graciously invited “Azula’s friends” to their family beach house on Ember Island. Dad must not have known we’d all be there without adult supervision, otherwise he’d never agree to this. Especially since Sokka is here with his girlfriend, Suki. _Ugh_ , they are so disgusting together and not even subtle about it! I actually respected her—a cheerleader, taekwondo black belt, honors student who nailed the coveted coast guard internship for the summer. But when I stepped on something cold, wet, and squishy in the bathroom on the first morning of our beach getaway... just, _ew._

I know it’s not their first time. And I know people have sex, alright? Hell, Jet and I did everything _but._ I just want it to be special. And with someone I… dare I say it? _Love._

Can you fall in love in high school? My rational brain says no. I write about it in my fictional stories, but that’s the only way I’ll entertain the idea. Besides, I have responsibilities. Gran Gran is great at taking care of us, but she isn’t getting any younger. Dad is gone over half the year. Sokka can barely match his own socks much less wash them. And for my junior year, I plan to take college level calculus, chemistry, and political science. I don’t have time for a boyfriend and certainly not any notions of love.

“Zuko was looking for you!” Ty Lee plops down next to me on my beach towel. I had distanced myself from the others, saying I want to work on my “tan.” My skin is dark enough already, so anyone with eyes can see through my outright lie. Even Toph wouldn’t be fooled. Although I swear that girl detects falsehood by the catch in your breath or the rhythm of your heartbeat _._ Toph teases that she can predict the next earthquake through her feet, but I bet she would feel it before the rest of us do.

It takes a while for Ty Lee's comment to register. Why would Zuko be looking for me? He hasn’t spoken a word to me since we arrived. I’m pissed about this, actually, and two can play the game of cold shouldering.

“He found the surfboards,” Ty Lee continues. “Did you want to surf?”

I do love surfing. Mom taught me. Sokka hates it; the uncoordinated doofus always falls off. But I’m a natural, almost as if I can command the waves. I'll be the bigger person and call a truce on this no-talking thing. Maybe Zuko surfs, too.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t even like the water! He looks at the ocean like it’s going to swallow him whole. This could put up a serious roadblock in our relationship, _I mean_ —friendship! Gah, we don’t even have that! I’ve spoken exactly 17 words to him. Why do I know? Because I've replayed that stupid encounter in my head, thinking I could have said something much more interesting. It would be a miracle if creepy, _sexy_ scar boy ever talks to me again. Like when he gave me a board, he just grunted. And I took it without saying _thank you!_ I clearly suck monkeyballs at conversation.

“Katara?”

“Hmm?” Get ready for case in point.

“I think I gave you the wrong surfboard.”

All I can think about is how tight my wetsuit feels all of the sudden and how his golden eyes shimmer in the midday sun. Even the half-lidded one is so striking, like his gaze is on fire. Zuko barely says a few words and apparently possesses the power to melt my insides and freeze my brain all at the same time.

“Huh?” Yes, I know. Eloquent.

“I gave you my sister’s board,” Zuko continues, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. “From when she was younger. I didn’t know how experienced you were.”

So… he was watching me. _Again._

He shrugs. “Um. Maybe you want to try my mother’s instead?”

My tongue feels thick, but somehow I manage. “Yeah. Sure. That’d be great.”  

He hesitates before handing over the board, tracing the rail with long nimble fingers. I don’t recall Azula ever mentioning their mother, so I wonder.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll take good care of it.”

He simply nods, and while the sadness in his expression is fleeting, it did not go unnoticed.

* * *

I distance myself again at the beachside bonfire that night. I much prefer the cool ocean breeze whipping through my hair over the hot stifling smell of burning wood. From my vantage point on a rocky ledge nearby, I can see the group down below. Azula assembles the ingredients for s'mores, taking a little too much pleasure in stabbing marshmallows with long metal skewers.

Sokka and Suki are snuggled up together in the same position they were earlier. With her head tilted back and lips slightly parted, I can only guess what’s going on underneath their blanket. _Ewww._

Zuko is wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and handing out lei necklaces of all things. I decide he is much more interesting to watch—so awkward and _adorable_. He tentatively places the flowers around Ty Lee’s neck, obviously trying to look anywhere besides the cleavage spilling from her bikini top. She gives him a peck on the cheek in response. It’s too dark to tell, but I bet his face has turned as red as our school mascot, the firedragon. I wonder if he knows that Ty Lee is into girls.

Zuko’s sister waves him away. Sokka and Suki are making out now, so he avoids them. He’s obviously searching for someone. Could it be me?

_Mai._

That girl has complained nonstop since we got here. She hates the sand. She sunburns too easily. Ocean water makes her eyes sting. Zuko doesn’t pay enough attention to her. Zuko won’t leave her alone! _UGH!_

He gives her TWO leis. And she fucking rolls her eyes at him. That’s it. I’m going for a walk on the beach.

I don’t know how long it’s been, but I have a tendency to lose track of time when I’m out here close to the water. _My element._

Someone clears his throat. If he weren’t so wrapped up in his girlfriend— _literally_ —I’d expect Sokka to start worrying and come find me. But no, this isn’t a concerned sibling visit.

“Missed you at the bonfire,” Zuko says.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I don’t really like fire. It’s too…” _Destructive._ “Hot.” My throat feels tight again but not for the same reason as before. My thoughts have been... drifting.

“I like fire. As long as it’s controlled.” His voice is sexy as fuck, but surprisingly I am able to find mine this time.

“Well, anything out of control is a bad thing, right?” Control is _everything_. That’s why I work so hard to maintain it.

“Makes sense. I don’t really like the ocean for that reason. The waves seem… uncontrollable. Or controlled by a force that we can’t wield.”

Ah, he likes his control, too. “The waves are controlled by the moon,” I say.

“I know, and the moon is untouchable. At least with fire, humans can light it, contain it, and put it out. Y’know?”

“I think I’d trust the moon over a man with a match any day.”

He regards me for a few seconds with those sad, striking eyes of his, then laughs. “Maybe so.”

He turns to leave, and I’m searching my brain for something, _anything_ to say to make him stay. I want to hear him laugh again.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” He’s suddenly back in my field of vision, and he’s closer than ever before. He smells like campfire and chocolate, and I didn’t think it possible, but those eyes are now _smoldering_. My breath catches as he gently places a lei around my neck; I shudder when warm fingers brush past my left ear.

He’s gone, and I discover this is no cheap party store necklace, either. The flowers are real, and their fragrance is intoxicating. I might feel high for a different reason, though.

* * *

“If you don’t like the ocean, then why did you apply for this position?” I’m basically high on two cups of coffee and a cocoa almond flaxseed energy bar. I’ve been anxiously waiting for our internship to start. We’re already on a boat first thing, and Zuko is gripping the side of it for dear life. Hahn immediately and shamelessly attached himself to Yue like a barnacle to a buoy, so it is only Zuko and me positioned here portside.

“It’s for PR,” he replies.

“What?”

He sighs. “Look, you wouldn’t understand.”

I don’t think his knuckles could get any whiter… or his face any greener. I can’t help but worry.

“Are you gonna be OK?” I ask when he’s clearly not.

“Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Is there anything _I_ can do?”

“No.”

“Can you maybe… explain? I can try to understand.” I stare at the right side of his face, chiseled and flawless. Admittedly, he’s beautiful. It's my turn to sigh.

His eyes remain fixated on the water below. “OK… it’s for my father’s business. To improve his reputation. It looks good for tech companies to support noble causes, give back to the environment. My father thinks I’m useless as an employee, so this is how he wants me to restore honor to the company name.”

“Oh.”

Even though I am mesmerized by his perfect profile, his statement doesn’t settle well with me at all. Of course, I want the position so it will look good on my college applications, and maybe that's a little selfish and not that much different. But I also care about the important stuff we're doing. Nobody ultimately goes into nonprofit work for personal glory, right? Maybe people do it to feel good about themselves, but somehow I know this is not Zuko's intention in this situation _._ It won't be fulfilling unless he feels _something_ for it.

“Is that how you see it? As just a job to make your father look good?” I ask.

“Katara… I just need to… survive, OK? I need to graduate, get into a good college, so I can get the hell out of here.”

“But… you’ve got the education position at the Marine Center. How can you teach what you don’t really believe in?”

“I got that position because I have a ton of Future Fire Technology branded freebies to hand out when I go visit places. I’m telling you, Katara. It’s all about PR.”

But it’s not! It’s about speaking truth! And saving lives! And changing minds! That’s what Mom used to…

I can’t look at him anymore. I just can’t. I can only look at our reflections in the water and fight the urge to push him overboard.

What if he can’t swim, though? Is that why he’s afraid?

I look at his pained expression once again, and it seems like he’s already drowning.


	3. Steamy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zutara Week 2017, Day Three: Steamy

If I never eat seafood again, it’ll be too soon. OK, maybe Gran Gran’s steamed seaprawns don’t count. They actually do taste good after a long day at work.

So, I’d be just fine if I never see raw fish again… hmm, except that I really like Mushi Sushi. They use the freshest ingredients, and the restaurant never reeks like the Marine Science Center’s medical lab. I wear a tight braid every day, and I swear that fishy smell is even woven into the strands of my hair. It’s settled into the fabric of my uniform shirt for sure, but that doesn’t pose a challenge. I wash Sokka’s socks after all.

“You do your brother’s laundry?” Zuko raises his good eyebrow. He wears that incredulous look often. I normally think it’s kinda cute, but not today.

Storms are sweeping through the bay which means Zuko and Hahn have been reassigned to the center instead of their usual offsite duties. I do not appreciate them breaking my stride.

“Damn right, she does,” Hahn interjects. “That’s a woman’s place, y’know. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of the kids…”

I already gave Zuko an eye roll, but Hahn deserves a blow to the head. As much as I want to punch him for being such a chauvinist pig, I'll let him have a piece of my mind instead. Except Zuko beats me to it.

“Where did you time warp from, asshole? A hundred years ago? Good luck finding a girl _in this century_ with that load of bullshit.” His narrowed eyes soften as he turns to face me. “And I think Sokka should wash his own clothes and not make his sister wait on him hand and foot!”

Here I should probably defend my brother and say that we divide the chores evenly, so he does pull his own weight. But Zuko has a good point. Sokka should learn so he can take care of himself.

“So the almighty _Fire Prince_ must do his own laundry then. Or do your servants do it for you?”

What is up with the nickname, I wonder? Regardless, I'm about to smack that confident smirk right off Hahn’s pretty boy face.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Zuko counters, surprisingly calm. “Been doin' it since I was 11.”

I’m not sure why, but this strikes me. Sokka was 11 when Mom died. I was nine, and that’s when we both had to start taking on more responsibilities. I see Zuko press his lips together, like he knows he’s said too much.

My suspicions are confirmed when Hahn persists. “Man, that’s sad. Even your own mother wouldn’t do your laundry. Probably because she can’t stand the smell of your shit!”

Zuko brushes past him, hitting his shoulder hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shortly after his dramatic exit, Yue arrives with water samples for analysis and scolds us for just standing around. She’s not happy about Zuko leaving and mumbles something about _the lazy rich kid_. Hahn pipes in with a snarky statement in support of this and promptly resumes his position as Yue’s elbow leech. He worships her like she’s royalty, so I doubt she knows his stance on women and their _place._

I don’t understand all the judgment and ridicule toward Zuko, though. I’m sure if he started doing his own laundry at age 11, he’s anything but lazy. If he’s still doing it, then he probably doesn’t have servants, either. I know his father owns a successful tech company. Azula won’t shut up about it. She never talks about their mother, and even though Zuko doesn’t, either, his looks give him away. Something happened to her, I’m certain of it now.

The exchange rattled me more than I realized, so I spend the rest of the day just going through the motions, distracted by thoughts of Mom.

I miss her. A lot.

* * *

It’s raining hard, and I am soaked to the bone standing at the bus stop. In my haste to leave work, I left my umbrella at the Marine Center. The wait seems unusually long, but the bus schedule is often delayed when there’s inclement weather.

A car pulls up and the passenger side window rolls down. I clutch my bag tighter, thinking I’ve seen this in a movie—a storm, a girl, a helpful stranger; then assault, murder, a body dump…

“Katara?”

I almost don’t recognize him through the pelting rain. Zuko’s right profile always makes my stomach flip flop, kinda like the apprehension when watching a scary movie. And it’s not like the scar bothers me. I just can’t help but wonder what he’d look like without it… or how he got it, of course.

“Do you want a ride?”

I’m a little taken aback that he is not driving a characteristic rich kid’s car. I can’t tell the make and model with droplets of rain now collecting on my eyelashes and obscuring my vision, but it’s a very standard four-door sedan.

I hear his frustrated sigh, another one of his mannerisms I find oddly endearing. “Katara, the seat is getting wet, so are you getting in or not?”

“Uhh, OK. Sure.” I open the door and plop down, stiff and awkward. He rolls up the window and just keeps staring at me.

“Oh, sorry.” I put on my seatbelt and nod.

“You’re soaked,” he says.

I press my finger and my thumb to my temples. “And now your seat is, too. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t care about the car. Do you—“ Now he’s the one who’s stiff and awkward. “Here, take this? T-t-to dry off?” He rummages around in the backseat and hands me a sweatshirt.

“Thanks.” I wipe my face, and the first thing I notice is the smell. We use the same fabric softener.

* * *

 I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting in front of my apartment complex, but thankfully we’ve moved beyond the topic of stain remover and color-safe bleach. I learn a lot of interesting things about this mysterious scar-faced boy—no, not about the scar, although I’m dying to know. I also want to ask about his mother, but I can’t find a way to work that into the conversation.

“My Uncle lives near here,” he says after we settle from a bout of laughter. He’s easy to talk to and his dry sense of humor reminds me a little of my grandfather. Perhaps Zuko is one of those _old souls_. I’m not even sure what that means, but I do know that he was forced to grow up before he was ready. Like me.

“Oh yeah?” I’m probably supposed to ask about his Uncle, but instead I press for different information. “Where do you live?”

“In Caldera.”

Of course. It’s a gated community on the other side of the school district. Zuko’s house is probably bigger than my entire apartment building. In an effort to push back my insecurities about my modest upbringing in comparison to his, I remember that we do have _some_ things in common. We both like the sound of rain but not getting wet in it, for example. And we both like sushi, but only if it doesn’t smell too fishy. And something happened to our mothers...

“So… you live with your sister… and father…” I try to reel him in.

He doesn’t take the bait, though. The steady beating of raindrops against the windshield fills the empty space. It’s the rhythm we both find soothing, but right now it’s just awkward— _aching._ I can almost feel his pain, and I wish I could take it back. Or rather, take it away.

It’s thick in here now. Stifling. _Steamy._ Zuko releases a long, drawn-out sigh as if adding to the fog—and confusion—that clouds the windows, our vision. I’m glad we’re not parked right in front of my building otherwise Gran Gran might suspect something. It’s _just_ talking. Or was. I guess I’ll have to be the vulnerable one.

Somehow kissing him seems easier than what I’m about to say. I don’t talk about this. Ever. But it’s been a really weird day, so anyway...

“My mom died when I was nine.” I let those words hang in the air between us for a moment, hoping for some clarity that I’m doing the right thing. “I’ve been thinking about her a lot today. Or… ever since I started this job, actually.”

It’s true. The Marine Center brings back a lot of memories. Mom cared a great deal for her causes. It’s what killed her, actually.

“Katara, I’m so sorry.”

That’s it. That’s _all_ he has to say. I didn’t tell him because I wanted his pity. I opened up and got nothing in return. I should've known it would be too hard to trust someone else even if I thought they might be able to understand. I reach for the door handle, ready to run, my brain saying, “ _Retreat, retreat!”_ Then, Zuko speaks.

“Are you ever afraid you’ll forget… what she looked like? Or sounded like? We have pictures and videos, but it’s just not… something you can touch. It doesn't feel real.” He has a vice grip on the steering wheel, and for once, his face is expressionless. “It probably sounds stupid, but we were talking about laundry... I always buy the same fabric softener… because it smells like her. I’m just… I don’t want to forget. Y’know?”

“Downy fresh moon peaches,” I whisper.

“What?”

“It’s the fabric softener. I… recognized the smell on your shirt.”

And it reminds me of big fluffy towels that Mom would wrap me in after a bubble bath… or freshly washed blankets that we would burrow under for a bedtime story… or a pile of clean laundry she would teach me how to fold…

I’m crying and wiping my face with his sweatshirt again, and he’s reaching a tentative hand toward me. I chance a sideways look at that perfect profile of his, and he’s absolutely mortified, like this was the last thing he wanted to happen when he offered me a ride. I’m about to leave for the second time when he starts rubbing circles on my back, and it feels so good. His touch is comforting, and maybe he _could_ understand, if I let him. It shouldn’t even matter if he shares the same pain of losing his mother. It’s OK for me to need someone like this. Isn’t it?

I hiccup and apologize and promise I’ll wash my snot out of his sweatshirt.


	4. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zutara Week 2017, Day Four: Icarus  
> Trigger warning: hints of abuse

Is it ridiculous that I am now curled up in bed with Zuko’s sweatshirt? I’m not even wearing it, just hugging it. My brain keeps replaying this tantalizing scene—his car windows all fogged up for a much different reason. If only we had been swapping spit instead of sob stories.

Would he think me a desperate fool if I just… kissed him? After confessing about my dead mother, yes… yes, he would.

I wonder what the scar feels like.

What would Mom say? I could use a little advice here. Is it too soon? _Yes._ Is he even my type? _No._

 _Jet had a tragic backstory._ A small voice in the back of my mind says.

 _But Jet was also an amazing kisser._ Says an even smaller voice.

I can’t sleep, so I turn on Netflix. I’m halfway through season six of a dramatic series based on Greek mythology. Because I’m a dork. Coincidentally, the episode is about the goddess of love forming an escort service, of sorts, and is quite graphic in its depictions of the _Erotes_. I fall asleep thinking about simply kissing Zuko, but one thing leads to another, and then...

I am so embarrassed by my first ever sex dream (of such great detail) that I don’t think I can face him at work the next morning. It’s still raining, so I dread that Yue will assign Hahn and Zuko to the lab again, and I might slip and say _boner_ instead of _beaker_ or _pussy_ dish instead of _petri_ dish. Why am I’m such a mess? I blame Aphrodite and her meddling.

The gods have mercy on me. Zuko doesn’t show up at the center today. But this also worries me. Did he make it home OK in the rain last night? Should I text him? No, he's probably fine. This internal debate continues, and for the second day in a row, I’m terribly distracted at work. It’s only a matter of time before Yue notices.

That night, I snuggle up again with his sweatshirt, trying to calm myself in the storms of uncertainty. The relentless rain, among other things, has chilled me to the core. I’m nearly asleep when Zuko sends me a message, offering me a ride to work tomorrow. The gesture itself sends a jolt through my body, like lightening. Excitement and nerves quickly settle into that warmth I was craving—his comfort. As much as I would love to accept, though, he lives halfway between here and the Marine Center. It would be too far out of his way, so I shouldn’t inconvenience him.

God, I hate riding the bus. Especially in the rain.

But Zuko now says he’s staying with his Uncle.

Why didn’t he mention that before? I’m too tired to consider the reasons. I can just ask him in the morning.

* * *

I’m a downpour of nonstop chatter when I get in the car. I guess I do that when I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be since we had such a good talk the other day. But then I literally had a dream about kissing him and… stuff, so…

Once I finally shut up, I realize how quiet he is. He keeps his eyes trained on the road and doesn’t look at me at all. I can respect a careful driver, but something isn’t right.

“Zuko, are you OK?”

“Yeah, just tired.”

His voice is huskier than usual, and there is a dark circle under his right eye. I lean forward so I can catch a glimpse of the other side of his face, but he quickly turns his head away. I try to follow his sudden movement, but the seatbelt locks up on me, so I slump back in my seat.

“How long have you been staying with your Uncle?”

“Since last night.”

“Oh.” This doesn’t make sense, but I can’t figure out the best question to ask next, so we ride the rest of the way in silence.

“I’m just gonna drop you off and head to my next assignment, OK?” he says as he pulls into the Marine Center parking lot. “I can give you a ride home, too, if you want.”

“Sure, that’d be great.” He still won’t look at me, and now I’m worried that I did something wrong.

* * *

At the end of the day, Zuko is in Yue’s office, so I sit outside the door to wait for him. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but the walls are thin, and I can hear every word.

“Zuko, are you sure it’s not broken?”

“No, ma’am. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You look terrible.”

“It doesn’t affect my ability to work, so please, can I just—“

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Yue interjects. “It does affect your work when the summer camp counselor calls me and says you’re scaring the children.”

“The kids are always scared of the scar anyway, so it’s not—”

“Zuko, I’m pulling you from education. You can work in the lab with Katara. She’s behind on her reports and could use the help.”

As troubling as the conversation is so far, I'm elated at this news. The extreme distress in Zuko’s voice overshadows any fleeting joy I feel, though.

“But Dr. Arnook, _please._ My father won’t… I have to…”

“The Marine Science Center appreciates your father’s generous donations. We’ll make sure his patronage is properly recognized.” Yue’s tone has turned to ice.

“OK, but… could you maybe not tell him? That I’ve been reassigned? I just don’t want him to think I failed… again.”

“I will leave that up to you. What you tell your father is your business.”

“Thank you, Dr. Arnook. Thank you so much.”

“But Zuko, if I have any reason to believe that _he_ is the one doing this to you… then I will make it my business. I _will_ report him. I don’t care how much money he makes or how much he gives us, he can’t just—“

“D-d-don’t. It’s not what you think… Please, don’t say anything.”

My heart starts pounding, and I clutch my chest to suppress the rising ache when I finally see his face. His left jaw sports a nasty bruise, and his lower lip is swollen. The scar looks the same, but in that instant, I _know._ Whoever inflicted these fresh wounds was responsible for that one, too.

I didn’t think it was possible for me to hate someone so much, someone I've never met… and in defense of someone I've only just met, actually. Dad calls me fiercely loyal, so maybe that’s what he means. I joke about wanting to hit Hahn for being so stupid. _This_ … feels different.

How could he do such a thing? _And how do I make him pay?_

Zuko scowls at me, and I immediately melt into a puddle of worry. He doesn’t want my pity, that much is clear. I’ve seen that look, and I understand that feeling. I do my best to mask my concern, but how do I show him that I care? I want to help.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” he mumbles.

“It’s OK.”

About halfway through the torturous drive home, I take a chance in breaking the silence. “Hey. Let's go get some sushi. I’m starving. I have a favorite place not far from my house.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He might not answer at all. Or ever talk to me again.

“It’s Mushi Sushi on the corner of 43rd and Kings Road,” I add with an air of hopefulness.

He laughs. And laughs again. And then laughs some more. I like the sound of his laugh, but right now it’s unnatural and annoying. And he’s wincing in pain, too, which makes it borderline unbearable.

“What’s so funny!?”

He clears his throat. “That’s my Uncle’s place. I was headed there anyway.”

I gape at him. “Your Uncle is Mushi?”

“Well, his name is Iroh. But yeah.”

* * *

Zuko pulls his hood over his head and slides into a booth near the back of the restaurant. It’s more crowded than I expected and decorated with colorful banners and candelabras. I had forgotten about Mushi’s theme nights on the third Thursday of the month. If my dinner companion wasn’t in such a sour mood, we could have fun celebrating… whatever it is.

The server, dressed in robes presumably for the occasion, hands me a menu. “Tonight’s specials correspond with your table assignment. Let’s see, you’re seated at _Icarus_ , so you can enjoy seafood soup, fried chicken wings, and ambrosia.”

“Ambrosia?” I ask.

“The nectar of the gods,” he says with a smile.

It’s Greek mythology night! My inner dork squeals with delight.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”

Zuko slumps even further down in his seat, like he wants to disappear. “Shit, I forgot about this. Let’s just get out of here, OK?”

“Aww. It looks like fun! Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

“It’s supposed to be a sushi restaurant. I don’t want chicken wings.”

“You have to admit it’s kinda clever. Fried wings for Icarus?”

For the first time today, he makes eye contact. “Yeah, the guy who got burned because he couldn’t please his father.”

Oh.

I do my best to hold his gaze, but the intensity of it is almost too much. “That’s not really how the story goes, you know. Daedalus warned his son and tried to help him. Icarus fell to his death because he didn’t heed his father’s instructions.”

He looks away. “Daedalus built a maze to hold a monster. Icarus is better off dead anyway.”

I'm not backing off, though. “Seriously, did you sleep through sophomore second semester? You’ve got your Greek myths all wrong.”

“And you’re the expert? You probably get your info from that stupid show, _Crossroads of Destiny_.”

“I _do_ watch that show. And it’s a great resource!”

“It’s not about Greek mythology! It just borrows from it. And butchers it. Honestly, how can you and my uncle watch that shit?”

He makes that incredulous face again with the one raised eyebrow. The shadow of his hood hides the trauma we’re both trying to ignore… by arguing… over nothing.

So, I laugh. And laugh again. And then laugh some more.

“What’s so funny!?”

“I can just see Mushi—I mean _, Iroh_ on the edge of his seat with a remote control in one hand and a golden goblet of ambrosia in the other, waiting with bated breath for the season premiere of _Crossroads of Destiny_ to start. I bet he dresses up for convention, too.”

“I did not attend CoDCon this year, although I considered it. I did dress as Dionysus at the annual wine festival last October. And coincidentally received a golden goblet as a souvenir.”

I hardly recognize the man, clad in leather armor, even though I’ve seen him before. He’s also wearing a broad grin framed by a course white beard and creases etched in thick skin, like that of his costume. I can tell he’s been through a lot—and would be prepared to take on anything. The heat of my embarrassment burns in my cheeks as I shake his extended hand.

“Odysseus at your service, my lady," he says with a bow. "Katara, I presume?”

I swear Zuko is blushing, too. So, he’s told his uncle about me?

“Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you. Er—nice job with the Trojan horse.”

“One of my finer moments, indeed! You're a good judge of character, but only half-right, I must say.” The old man winks at me. “I do wait with bated breath but not with remote in hand. I often watch shows on the iPad. It's much easier on these aging eyes of mine. Also, ambrosia is both a food and a drink, and for today’s menu, I’m serving it as dessert. I’ll bring you some, on the house.”

I open my mouth to say _thank you_ , but Zuko’s groan causes both of our heads to snap in his direction. He probably did it out of annoyance with his uncle’s antics, but I am now reminded of his injuries.

Iroh is, too, as his countenance changes completely. “Nephew, you need to get ice on that. It’s still swollen.”

“I’m fine,” Zuko growls.

“I can help,” I offer.

“I don’t need help.”

Iroh sits down next to me, facing Zuko. His voice is so low that I strain to hear his words. “Nephew, you can hide behind your hood and sulk in the corner all you want. But you can’t deny the truth anymore. And part of that truth is that you _do_ have people who care about you.”

Iroh then turns to me. “Take him upstairs to my apartment. There’s an icepack in the freezer. I’ll bring food up later… including that dessert I promised.”

* * *

Zuko slouches on a bar stool with arms folded across his chest, his mood matching the darkness of his marks— _all_ of them—which I now carefully inspect.

I’ve never been this close to him, yet somehow I’m not as nervous as I thought I’d be… if we ever got to this point under _different_ circumstances, that is.

Oh, how I wish the circumstances were different.

He flinches when I place the ice on his face, so I instinctively cup his other cheek with my hand and lightly trace the stubble at his jaw line with my thumb. The gesture is more intimate than I intended, but I hope to return some measure of the comfort he gave me. His sigh comes out more like a shudder—a _release_ —as he leans into my touch.

I step forward and press our foreheads together. It’s a way of bracing myself to be strong for him. Because I need to feel a connection even if it is a small one.

“I don’t know what happened to you, and you don’t have to tell me, OK?” I whisper. “But I’m here… if you need to…”

“Thanks, Katara.” He closes his eyes and brings his hand up over mine to adjust the ice pack. When he lingers there, my body finally betrays me with a quickening pulse and a fluttering sensation in my stomach. I am standing but no longer steady. I am connected but not in control. I allow my fingers to slip to the nape of his neck and thread them through his hair. Because suddenly I need _more._

Kissing him right now would be a matter of simply tilting my head. I feel the warmth of his breath. I hear him swallow. I smell the damn fabric softener that started this whole thing.

We are _that_ close. It would be so easy.

Yet so… complicated. The trail of melting ice running down my forearm reminds me that I am here to help. He’s too vulnerable, and I don't want this—whatever _this_ is—to be confused with pity. I do want to make him feel better, though. I don’t exactly understand what I’m feeling.

Because I’ve never felt this way before.


	5. In Other News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zutara Week 2017, Day Five: Modern Times

Zuko and I fall into a comfortable pattern of casual conversation in the car, a productive partnership at work, and the occasional night “out” at Mushi’s. He puts on an unconvincing act like his uncle annoys him, but I can tell they are close. Whatever Zuko doesn’t say out loud, I can easily read on his face. Details behind those expressions are lacking, of course.

Certain topics are off limits—like what happened with his father or that night in Iroh’s apartment. I let down my guard in sharing about my mom, but I’m putting it back up until it’s clear what direction we’re headed with all this. It's easy to talk to Zuko, but trusting him is a different matter entirely.

The first warning comes from Yue. She reassigns Hahn to the education position, and I assume it's because she is tired of his constant flirting. But then she starts spending more time in her office, making hushed phone calls behind closed doors. I imagine some intriguing behind-the-scenes action—like they’ve discovered the elusive tiger-seal (a creature from my stories) and finally receive the national attention they deserve for their hard work.

I often use fiction to escape my reality. Why do I feel this sudden urge to write?

I panic when Yue calls me into her office. She’s caught me daydreaming again. Or she’s seen me staring at Zuko’s ass. She’ll reprimand me for being so distracted all the time and probably reassign me, too. I prepare a report about some unusual findings Zuko and I discovered in one of the plankton samples as proof we work well together. I’m ready with my notes and everything.

“Katara, how are things going with Zuko?” she asks.

“F-f-fine, I guess. Er—great.” I didn’t expect _that_ question, exactly.

She eyes the papers in my hands, the ones I'm flipping through nervously. “You… guess?“

“We’re good partners.” Ugh, I hate that I’m blushing right now. “In the lab, I mean. We get a lot done.”

Yue nods slowly in the way that grownups usually do when they have something they don’t want to say. “That’s good. So… you don’t feel… threatened… in any way?”

Blindsided again. What the hell does she mean by that?

I try to pick up my jaw and answer quickly. I don’t want my silence to raise any suspicions. “Threatened by Zuko? No, not _at all_.”

“Have you received threats from anyone else?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“I don’t mean to scare you, Katara, but some threats have been made around here recently. If you ever feel unsafe or uncomfortable, will you please let me know as soon as possible?”

“Of course.”

“And… be careful. Zuko’s situation is… complicated.”

When I piece this conversation together with what I overheard between Zuko and Yue that one day, my best guess is that Mr. Kasai gives a lot of money to the Marine Center. And when things don’t go his way, he may use his power to pressure them. If Zuko’s face is any indicator, then I have no doubt his father would make threats… and follow through with them.

But what does this have to do with me?

* * *

My second clue arrives through a series of messages from Azula. She says I should stop seeing her brother, that their father disapproves, that if Zuko stays with me, then he will pay…

First of all, we are not _together!_

Wait. Am I the reason he…

I _was_ with him that night.

_Oh shit._

I have to know for sure.

Except Zuko is acting… weird. He’s more relaxed and happier than I’ve ever seen him. There may even be a hint at a sense of humor trying to break through his surly outer shell. Iroh has noticed the change, too, and calls it a “metamorphosis.” Zuko says he resents being compared to a butterfly and tells his uncle to “bug off.”

Did I say sense of humor? More like lame attempts at making jokes.

I laugh anyway. He lights up when I do. Like a... firefly? 

_Damn, he’s gorgeous._

There is no way in hell I’m bringing up that stuff about his father now.

* * *

Iroh invites Gran Gran and me to a July Fourth barbecue on the beach. Normally Dad and Sokka would come home for the holiday, but those storms swept northward and disrupted their travel plans. As consolation, I’ve been promised a HUGE party to celebrate my 16th birthday in August. To be honest, I’d be OK with a small family gathering. And Zuko. Maybe Mushi, too.

Speaking of, that man loves parties.

While Ozai practically owns half of the bayside resort property on Ember Island, his brother opted for a vacation home and a strip of private beach along the Pacific coast instead. This area is much better for surfing, but no one brought any gear today. Gran Gran enjoys chatting with Iroh’s friends, Jeong Jeong, Bumi, and Piandao. There are a few people I recognize from the restaurant—an employee or two, and a repeat customer I often see there. A young girl, maybe four or five years old, flits about the adults vying for attention. Coincidentally, she's wearing a pair of costume butterfly wings.

I survey the perfect waves and lament not having a surfboard.

“You just want an excuse to get me in a wet suit,” Zuko says.

“Was that… another joke?”

“You know me, Katara. I don’t joke.”

His face is passive, but golden eyes flash with bridled laughter. There is only one thing I can do to unleash it.

Tickle him.

“Nephew, why don’t you show Katara the tide pools?”

At first I think Iroh makes the suggestion because he disapproves of our touchy-feely ticklefest which involves tackling each other and rolling around in the sand. But after the short hike to the tide pools, I wonder if he was actually encouraging us. We are now enclosed in a small private cove.

Zuko laughs. “Uncle knows that low tide was hours ago.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you can’t really see anything right now. If he intended for me to show you the marine life and all, then…”

We both know it was a setup, but I’m the first to make a move. I lace my fingers with his and wait to release the breath I’m holding. He does that shuddery sigh thing, like he’s _relieved_. And then he squeezes my hand.

“Could you tell me about it at least?” I lean into his shoulder and decide to breathe again.

“Uhh—“ He swallows. “Organisms that survive here must be able to withstand harsh conditions. The environment is constantly changing with the tides, but a unique biodiverse ecosystem has adapted to thrive.”

He gets a poke in the ribs for that. “Thank you, Wikipedia.”

He grabs my other hand to ward off the attack—or maybe to pull me closer. “I had the education position at the Marine Center, remember?”

I’m facing him now, and a heat rises between us. I’m feeling bold enough to close the gap and trap it. I’m already enslaved by the intensity of his gaze.

“Yes sir, Professor Kasai.”

He freezes.

He only steps a few feet away, but he’s as distant as the offshore waves. He’s watching them, too, but without really seeing them. There is _something_ with him and the water—while I feel connected to it, he’s _haunted_ by it.

“My mom loved the ocean,” he says suddenly.

The space he left behind is now cold— _empty_. It takes me a while to recover, to respond. “That’s something we have in common."

At this, Zuko smiles. “She would like you.”

Some warmth returns, but I'm still uncertain. “Oh. I meant… my mom loved the ocean, too.”

“ _Ocean secret, vast and blue_

_Ebbs and flows, beneath the moon,_

_Rise and fall, crashing blue spirit_

_Whispers on waves, can you hear it?”_

“That’s… beautiful,” I say.

“She wrote poetry… about a lot of things, but her favorite was the sea.”

My heart is racing again, but for a different reason this time. “That’s something else we have in common.”

“What’s that?”

“My mom was a writer, too. She was an investigative reporter for _The Modern Times._ She wrote mostly stuff about the environment, so our work at the Marine Center reminds me a lot of her.”

“That’s so cool, Katara. She would be very proud of you.”

“She got her first big break on the oil spill in Alaska. That was before she met Dad. She dug so deep into the corporate scandal that even years later, they had to move because of safety. Of course, that didn't keep her from doing the same thing here."

"What happened to her?"

"We don't really know. She was on assignment in Death Valley. Her editor suspected foul play... but there was never any proof."

Zuko goes pale. Paler than pale. Paler than I thought possible. "D-d-death Valley?"

If Zuko’s ghosts are whispers in the waves, then mine are mirages in the desert. "Yeah. I know. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"It's getting late. We should start heading back."

It's not late, but I've obviously said too much… again. I never talk about this with anyone, and I promised myself I wouldn’t be so vulnerable with Zuko. But he’d opened up about his mom... a little. Maybe something bad happened to her, too.

Zuko avoids me for the rest of the day. He uses the excuse that he needs to help his uncle with the food... and then the cleaning… and setting up for fireworks...

At dusk, they disappear. I watch Gran Gran play a complicated board game called Pai Sho with Piandao. When we settle on the beach for the show, Iroh’s youngest visitor unexpectedly plops down in my lap. I catch a whiff of something familiar, something comforting...

_Moon peaches._

"Hi, I'm Kiyi," she announces, leaning against my chest and looking up at me with curious golden eyes.

“Hi, I’m Katara,” I answer slowly. “Where is your—“

“I love the fire in the sky!” she squeals as the first bottle rocket takes flight. “Uncle does the best fireworks ever!”

I’m not sure which adult the girl came with since I haven’t been introduced to everyone at the party. I can guess by her looks that she’s related to the Kasai family somehow, but it’s the way she says _Uncle_ that sounds…

Just like Zuko.

* * *

Per the norm, the next time I’m in Zuko’s car, we act like nothing ever happened—the almost-kiss, the cold shoulder followed by moments of deep connection complete with a poetry performance.

Nevermind all that. I have more pressing questions. "Who is Kiyi?"

"I don't know. Uncle adopts practically everyone and calls them family. He already thinks of you as his niece.” Zuko immediately turns bright red and coughs. “Kiyi is sweet, but hella stubborn."

Just like Zuko. "Are you sure you're not related?"

"Maybe? Like distant cousins or something?"

"Does Iroh have any kids?"

"His son died in the war."

I apparently have a talent for finding the most sombre subjects. Either that, or there is no end to Zuko's family drama. "Oh. Sorry."

"What's this all about anyway?"

"She told me about the blue spirit."

Aaaaaaaand cue the switch from deep red to paler than pale as the color drains from Zuko’s face. "That's... well, anyone could say that. It wouldn't be the first time something supernatural was attributed to the sea. Take... Poseidon for example."

"Or Tui and La." I wait for the furrowed brow to follow.

And... check. “Who, what now?” he asks.

“Your mom’s poem reminded me of the moon and ocean spirits, Tui and La. It’s a belief my ancestors in Alaska held, a harmonious push-and-pull relationship to keep the world in balance.”

“Sounds like the tides.”

“Exactly.”

Here comes the part where he sighs dramatically, but I have no idea what he'll say next.

“It’s just another way to explain what we don’t understand. What we cannot control.”

Hmm, interesting. “Isn’t that what spirituality does?" I muse aloud. "Help us make peace with those things? Like death, for example.”

I am NOT speaking from experience because if I’m honest with myself, I am far from making peace with my mother’s death. If he has any insight, I'm all ears.

“I… don’t know.”

I don’t know, either, but I wish I did... for the both of us.

* * *

I spend another day at the Marine Center in a complete state of distraction. After this, Yue will undoubtedly reassign me to the dreaded job of cleaning up seal shit. She alternates between giving me looks of warning and pity, so I’m still not sure what to make of our conversation or anything else that's transpired since then.

I'm going to ask Zuko about it. Point blank. He'll probably turn a ghastly shade I haven't seen, yet. But it's better than black and blue, if his father really is making threats.

But when we head back to his uncle's restaurant after work, we don't slip into our usual booth near the back. I follow Zuko past the kitchen to the stairs that lead up to Iroh’s apartment. We haven't been here alone together since that night, and all of those sensations return to me as if that moment is suspended in time. I’m looking at the face of someone who’s been beaten, and all I want to do is kiss the pain away. I won’t reopen those wounds—not now, not _ever._

Zuko is not one for dwelling in the past, though. He doesn’t skip a beat as he leads me down the hallway, and I think maybe we're going to his room. My brain and pulse race with curiosity—of the _possibilities_ —but he stops short of the doorway and points at something on the wall.

My breath catches. It’s a framed newspaper article from _The Modern Times_ , dated May 2009, the same year my mom died.

The headline reads, " _No matter how things may seem to change, never forget who you are._ " I skim down to the byline at the bottom. " _Professor Kasai teaches English composition at Atlas University._ "

Zuko's mom taught at AU? And she wrote for _The Modern Times,_ too?

"When I worked for my dad last summer, I found some of Mom’s files," Zuko explains. "I knew she wrote a few articles, but I didn't know Uncle had this until I started staying here recently.”

"Do you think our moms knew each other? It's a big newspaper, but maybe—"

"Was your mom The Painted Lady?"

I stop breathing altogether. " _What?"_

He runs a hand through his hair like he does when he's nervous. "Was that her...pen name... or whatever?"

It was a reference to war paint and a tribute to our tribal heritage. "Yes. Why?"

"Then I need to show you something."


	6. Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zutara Week 2017, Day Six: Soulmates

Zuko retrieves his laptop bag from his room and heads for the kitchen table. I linger in the hallway, trying to focus long enough to make sense of his mom’s article, but the words are blurring together.

Damn you, tears.

I take a minute to collect myself before joining Zuko in the kitchen. He fishes something out of his pocket and places it on the table while he types in his login password. It’s a tube of chapstick, and I would be lying if I said I haven’t noticed that slight bulge in his pants before. He must carry it with him all the time.

I’m so wrecked. If I don’t kiss Zuko soon, I might die of thirst. I don’t like the taste of his particular brand of chapstick, though.

I figure this moment is yet another lost opportunity when he snaps the cap off, but it isn’t chapstick at all.

It’s a USB drive. Oh, yeah. He was going to show me something. Right.

When it loads, I can’t help but say the name out loud, “Ursa.”

“These are my mother’s files I found on my father’s—“ Zuko presses his lips together like he always does when he’s said too much. His hand is shaking when he double clicks on the disk icon.

I read through the folders, silently this time. “Anthology… Articles… ENG101... ENG110… Grades… Lectures… Notes… _Painted Lady_ …”

“What’s in the Painted Lady folder?” I ask, ignoring the lump that has formed in my throat.

“I can’t open it. I’ve read through everything else on this disk, but that folder is password protected.”

There is only one other folder, “Pictures,” and it piques my curiosity. “What’s in there?” I point at the screen.

A deep sadness passes over his face, making the scar seem more pronounced than ever. He obliges and opens the folder to reveal one single image entitled “Beach.” It’s an artfully composed silhouette of a woman and a child walking along the beach at sunset. I can only assume it is Ursa and Zuko, but the figures are too shadowy to tell.

“That’s it?” Surely he has more photos of his mother somewhere.

“There were at least a hundred photos in that file. But that’s when the data transfer was interrupted. That’s when… I got caught.”

 _This_ is the story of the scar. I just know it. But I have no idea what to say next.

I don’t get a chance before he redirects. “Katara, I’ve tried every password I can think of to open this file—my name, Azula’s name, our birthdays, Mom’s nicknames for us, and all of that in every combination. I was wondering… what if the file came from _your_ mom? What if… do you know of a password she might use?”

It is too much. I am suddenly my nine-year-old self sorting through a box of Mom’s stuff that Dad has refused to touch since she died. All I ever wanted was something like this—a collection of her writing, notes, and pictures. Instead, all that came back from the coroner was assorted jewelry, cosmetics, and other typical items from a woman’s handbag.

“Katara? Are you OK?” Zuko breaks through my reverie.

No, I’m not. I can’t do this right now. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

His shoulders drop in disappointment, but when our eyes meet, we come to a silent understanding. It’s the tide pool scene all over again but with our roles reversed. The impact of the triggered memory hits me hard, and it is easier to choose distance and distraction over the pain of pushing through it. I no longer blame Zuko for his reaction that day.

I also acknowledge that he did _try_ to talk about it. And neither of us has to bear our burden alone. We have each other.

I tell myself that only this moment is lost, not _everything_ —not yet. And then I leave.

* * *

I refuse dinner and hull up in my room. I can’t exactly describe what I’m feeling—confused, yes, and maybe a little angry. Or perhaps I’m just jealous that Zuko somehow ended up with access to my mother’s work when all I’ve ever gotten is my father’s gruff response, “Katara, just let it go.”

I’ve read all of her articles in back issues of _The Modern Times_ , of course. Gran Gran secretly gifted me with an online subscription last year. Dad makes comments like, “It’s _old_ news anyway, so we need to focus on moving forward.” Sokka says that Mom’s writing will probably always represent suffering and loss for our family.

Sometimes when I feel… like I don’t know what to feel, that is when _I_ write. But that hardly seems like a therapeutic option right now given the circumstances, so I decide to watch Netflix instead. I really should catch up on _Crossroads of Destiny_ because the new season starts later this month. I don’t want to miss out on Uncle Iroh’s premiere party.

When did I start referring to him as _Uncle?_

This episode is about Phaethon, son of Helios, the sun god. As his tragic story unfolds, I wonder if this is the plotline Zuko had confused with Icarus. The boy certainly tries to prove himself to his father and to the world, but only brings fire and destruction, eventually falling from his chariot in the sky to his untimely death. I can’t handle the images of scorched landscapes and dried-up riverbeds in my fragile state, but before I turn off the show, the earth goddess says something that strikes me.

“Help us, great Zeus! Is this the end of earth? Even the heavens are burning. The past turns to ashes, and the future is fire!”

 _The future is fire—_ the slogan for Ozai’s company. I don’t even know what Future Fire Technology does, despite Azula’s constant bragging. She asserts it’s the “way of the future,” whatever it is. So, I look it up on my phone. They make virtual reality components such as headsets, gloves, and even a full exoskeleton for an “immersive experience.” The website is vague on what their products are actually used for, though.

I regret leaving Zuko. I should have tried to help him with the password instead of freaking out. Our mothers are obviously connected somehow, and he put himself at risk just to get those files. Mom took all kinds of risks to get information in her line of work. I _never_ wanted to be a journalist, but I do want to be like her.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m pulling the box of her things out of my closet. I used to look through it nearly every day, but I haven’t now for a few years. I wipe the dust from the lid and carefully lift it to reveal an odd collection of treasures. I hold up a pair of pearl earrings, and a shaky sound escapes my lips, almost like laughter, but not. I remember begging Dad to let me pierce my ears so I could wear them. He said I had to wait until I turn 16. Here I am, almost 16, and I don’t really care about that anymore.

Next, I run the pad of my thumb over a necklace I had also hoped to wear someday. The pendant has a wave carved out of whalebone, attached to a blue velvet ribbon. Dad gave it to Mom when they got married, and I’ve always figured it would be too painful for him to see it again. Maybe I could ask him.

Maybe I could ask him if he knows Mom’s password, too. I will have to explain that I’ve found a file of hers, and he might not like that. I understand if he doesn’t want to dwell on the past, but surely he doesn’t want to forget _everything_?

Finally, I pull out a tube of bright red lipstick, and this is when I lose it. It was her “power paint,” she called it. When I pretended to be a warrior princess as a young girl, she would paint the Aleut symbols on my face and tell me stories of our people.

“Katara, are you OK, dear?” Gran Gran calls from the doorway.

I sniff and wipe my face with Zuko’s sweatshirt. Yes, I still have it. “I-I-I’m fine, Gran Gran.”

“Can I make you some chamomile tea? Or run you a relaxing lavender jasmine bubble bath? You’ve been working so hard lately.”

“No thanks. I’ll just… go to bed early, I think.”

“OK, dear. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Gran Gran.”

“Oh… and Katara? Your mother would be very proud you.”

I wait until she leaves before fully releasing the tears I’ve been holding back. I suppose a good cry is long overdue. I throw myself on the bed with Zuko’s sweatshirt balled up like a pillow. I don’t realize that I’m still clutching the lipstick. The cap pops off which means I’m probably making a huge mess on my sheets, but I don’t care. Besides, I’m a laundry expert. Mom even used to call me Moonpeach.

* * *

I wake up the next morning drowsy and disoriented. Strands of my hair are stuck to my face and my throat is raw—this is why I hate crying. I stand up and brush the wrinkles out of yesterday’s clothes. Mom’s lipstick falls to the floor with a _clank_ , and I say out load to no one in particular, “OK, I’m awake, I’m awake!”

I groan when I look at my phone. Zuko will be here in thirty minutes to pick me up. I scoop up his sweatshirt and laugh. At this rate, he’s never getting it back. I give it a squeeze, a pathetic part of my morning ritual these days. As I scan the room for my shoes, a glint of silver catches my eye.

No. Fucking. Way.

Mom’s lipstick is a USB drive, too. All this time I never knew.

I am cursing our old school computer for how long it takes to boot up. My stomach churns so violently with nerves that I consider calling in sick today. I even taste bile in the back of my throat when the icon “Kya” shows up on the screen.

I don’t know where to start. The “Pictures” folder? There is one called “Fiction,” too. Did my mom write stories like I do? There is also “Case Files,” and that one scares me a little. My hand hovers over the mouse, paralyzed by indecision.

Then, I see it. “ _Blue Spirit_.”

And after years of wishing I had all the rest of these files and only weeks of knowing Zuko, _that_ is the folder I decide to click on first.

 _Of course_. Its contents are encrypted and require a password.

“Zuko is here, dear!” Gran Gran calls from the entryway.

 _Shit._ I can’t process any of this, so I quickly eject the disk and secure it in the zippered part of my bag. I haven’t even changed clothes, but at least I’m in uniform, so it’ll have to do. Both Gran Gran and Zuko eye my disheveled appearance with some concern, but I simply brush past them and head toward Zuko’s car.

I don’t talk to Zuko right away, and he respectfully heeds the silence. He probably thinks I still need my space after yesterday which is partially true. I’m actually dying to tell him what I found, but I’m also reeling from it. His mom has one of my mom’s files, and my mom has one of his mom’s files. What does this mean?

After I fix my hair into my usual braid for the day, I text Dad to ask him if he knows Mom’s password. He confirms what I already suspect—that it should be derived from my name, nickname, or birthday just like Zuko suggested.

I cast a sideways glance at Zuko who unsurprisingly has a death grip on the steering wheel and laser focus on the road. He always does that when there is something left unspoken between us. Is he this easy to read to everyone… or just me?

“Hey Zuko?”

Predictably, he lets out a huge sigh of relief since I finally broke the tension. “Yeah?”

“Can you come over after work today?” I ask.

“Sure.” He stares straight ahead, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

I look down at his lap to confirm he still has the chapstick in his pocket. No, I am not ashamed of this in the least. “Great. And can you bring your laptop?”

He tilts his head in my direction and nods, but I don’t acknowledge this because I am still groping him with my eyes. OK, I may have a problem.

* * *

My _problem_ is that I’m a fucking waterworks these days. I cannot stop crying! The bus driver keeps looking at me like I’m a dam about to bust.

Depending on the outcome of Zuko’s little _meeting_ , I’m gonna bust someone’s ass for sure.

I can’t believe he’d agree to go meet with his sister! Ever since I connected the mysterious Ursa files with Zuko’s scar, I don’t trust the Kasai family _at all_. Except for Iroh, of course. Wow, how did the apple fall so far from the tree? In my Google search last night, I read an article about corruption within the company when it was an arms dealer under Zuko’s grandfather, Azulon.

Zuko says he will call me later. I text back that he should just come over. To pass the time, I read through a few of my mom’s short stories. Hers are not fantasy like mine, though. More like _melodrama_ … and more than I can take right now. I pace between the kitchen and living room. Gran Gran gives me worried looks. I imagine Azula stabbing Zuko with skewers, and Ozai using him as a punching bag. I cry some more. I double check the freezer to make sure we have icepacks. Of course we do. Sokka lives here after all.

Dammit. I even miss Sokka, the big oaf. When we were younger, I had a stuffed penguin, and he had a stuffed otter. If I were crying at night because I missed Mom, he would put on a show to cheer me up—The Adventures of Otter Penguin!

I’m in the middle of composing a text to Sokka, complete with otter and penguin emojis, when Zuko calls.

“Hey, sorry it’s so late.” He sounds very tired.

“Are you OK?” I sound very motherly.

“Um, yeah. Mostly.”

Hmm, not the answer I wanted to hear. “What did Azula want?” I growl.

“She offered me a job at Future Fire. She said things were… how did she put it? _Heating up._ She could use the help… or something like that.”

 _Oh no._ “Did you—“

“No, Katara.”

“OK, good.”

“It’s not good. I told her I’m happy at the Marine Center, but Azula doesn’t want me to be happy. I told her I’m already doing what Dad wants, but if she thinks I have his favor for any reason, she’ll fix that. She’ll report some bullshit story back to him. He’ll come by the Marine Center to check up on me. I’m so fucked.”

I can’t stand how defeated he sounds, so I deftly change the subject. “Hey, about that password…”

“Yeah? Did you think of something?” His tone changes completely— _thankfully._

“Well, you could try Katara082800 or maybe KataraAugust2000 or something with my name and birthday which is August 28, 2000.”

“OK. Just a minute.”

Soon I hear his furious typing in the background. “No luck.”

“You could try Sokka’s, too. His birthday is September 6, 1998.”

I wait for what seems like forever. His frustration mounts with the continuous beating of the delete key.

“What about a nickname, Katara?”

I was afraid he’d ask this. “Don’t laugh, OK?”

“I won’t.”

“It’s… Moonpeach.”

A pause.

“Shit. Holy shit. Katara! That’s it!”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Zuko?”

“Sorry.”

“Is it… stuff from my mom? In the file.” Because, dude, I’m dying over here.

“It’s uhhh—“

I have an epiphany. “Zuko, what’s your nickname?”

“What?”

“What. Is. Your. Nickname?”

“Oh, umm. Turtleduck.”

“Turtleduck?” I laugh but only because it sounds like a creature that would fit perfectly in my fictional world.

“Hey, I didn’t laugh at yours!” he whines. “It’s because I loved that Christmas song when I was a kid but called it a turtleduck instead of a turtledove, _OK_?”

I’m half-listening because I just typed “turtleduck” for the password, and the “Blue Spirit” file on my mom’s disk is now accessible.

Seriously, what does this mean?

“Zuko, if I can access my mom’s files with your mom’s password, and you can access your mom’s files with my mom’s password, do you think… were we supposed to find this together?”

Were we supposed to find each other?

Zuko doesn’t answer.

We should be doing this together.

“Zuko, can you come over?”

“I… I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“What? I think… it was meant to be! How else would you explain it?”

“It could just be a coincidence. Maybe they used each others’ passwords to ensure no one would find out ever. Maybe we’re not supposed to know any of this.”

I don’t know what _this_ is because I haven’t read anything, yet. I realize I want him here with me because I’m scared.

“Zuko, please…”

“Even if our moms wanted us to know, my father absolutely doesn’t. It’s too… dangerous. I shouldn’t… you should stay away from me.”

Another epiphany.

“Zuko, did your dad hit you because of me?”

“No! It was… I broke curfew.”

“You’re lying.”

Zuko lets out a noise of frustration, something I’ve never heard him do before. “ _ARRRRRRGGGGHHH_. He just said it was a reminder. To not dishonor the family. He’s a fucking psychopath, Katara. Just let it go.”

I hate that everyone keeps saying that!

“No! I think… Ozai knew that our mothers were working on something together. Something big. A scandal perhaps… maybe it involved your father. So when he found out you were seeing me, he forbade it. And then beat you as a _reminder._ ”

“Katara, have you read any of your mom’s files, yet?”

“No.”

“OK, so read them. And we’ll talk in the morning.”


	7. Flight

The content of the “Blue Spirit” file is not what I expected. I have tried texting and calling Zuko numerous times because he HAS to see this. And I HAVE to know what he found in the “Painted Lady” folder. Needless to say, I do not sleep a wink.

This makes me a miserable wreck in the morning, but I remember to shower and put on clean clothes since I didn’t the day before. Gran Gran fusses at me for not eating breakfast. Apparently I skipped dinner the past two nights, too? I resent the look of utter disbelief she shoots me when I yell, “I am _fine!_ ”

I mean, I _will be_ fine once I talk to Zuko. To avoid further questioning and expressions of pity, I wait on the sidewalk for him to pick me up. Except it isn’t his ten-year-old sedan that pulls up in front of my apartment building. I would have never pegged Iroh for a sports car aficionado, yet a white Lotus Elise now purrs in the nearest parking spot with a bearded driver poking his head out to grin and wave at me.

I smile back, but my heart sinks. It’s a two-seater which means no Zuko. That new car smell combined with crisp leather wafts when I open the door.

“Only eight more days until the season premiere of Crossroads! Aren’t you excited, Katara?” Iroh chirps.

I survey the interior like I’ve lost something— _someone_. “Where’s Zuko?”

“He’s fallen—” The old man lets out a raspy cough. “—ill today. I might be coming down with a little bug myself.”

He revs the engine and raises his eyebrows. I hum appreciatively, pretending to admire the power of the machine, but the vibration only heightens the sick sensation of worry I already feel in my stomach. Iroh doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort as he then launches into a long explanation on theories he has for upcoming episodes of our mutual favorite show. I don’t mention that I haven’t finished season six, yet, and he’s basically spoiling the ending for me. But I no longer hold the same anticipation—like something so trivial couldn’t possibly matter in comparison. It reminds me of how I couldn’t wait to get my ears pieced.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. “Uncle Iroh? Where is Ursa?”

In truth, I already know the answer to this. Because her whereabouts are detailed in the Blue Spirit file.

“Ursa is… gone,” he answers simply.

“I know she had to go into hiding,” I say. “But… does Zuko know?” I'm almost certain that he doesn't, but my sources also list Iroh as a point of contact. Why would he keep this information a secret from his nephew when it so obviously causes him suffering?

Iroh lets out a long and labored sigh while fixating hard and fast on the road, very much in the same way that Zuko does when troubled by the topic of discussion. Seconds stretch to minutes, and I’m ready to fire my next question when he finally speaks again.

“I do not know what Zuko’s father told him about his mother,” he says. “But whatever it is, Zuko accepts that he will never see her again. And that is… for the best.”

Tears sting at the corner of my eyes, and a bitterness burns at the back of my throat. Because if my mother was out there somewhere, _still alive_ , I'd do whatever it takes to find her.

"But why?” I ask.

“Because if Ozai knew where Ursa was, he’d kill her.”

"But Zuko thinks she's dead already. Why can't he at least know that she's alive? It doesn’t make sense!”

“It makes sense when you understand what kind of control Ozai can exert over his family. It is much safer this way.”

“But if Zuko knew—“

“If Zuko knew anything, his father would find a way to get the information from him and then kill him, too. Your family wouldn't be safe, either. It would be best to just let it go, Katara.“

I seethe at this response but don’t say anything more for the rest of the ride except _thank you_ when Iroh drops me off at the Marine Center. It’s going to be another unproductive day at work for me as I’m plagued by thoughts such as…

I know Ozai is cruel and scandalous, but a killer?

And if Iroh knows so much, then how come Ozai hasn’t killed him?

Did Ozai kill my mother?

* * *

Zuko still hasn't answered my calls or texts and misses the next two days of work. I am worried to the point of exhaustion. Iroh doesn’t offer me any more rides to work, probably because of my aggressive line of questioning. Maybe I do have what it takes to become an investigative journalist. But if I would have kept my mouth shut, I could be seated comfortably in a luxury sports car instead of on the stinky crowded bus. I suppose the quest for truth involves making sacrifices.

For my mom, it meant sacrificing _everything_. I'm crying again, and this time, the bus driver hands me tissue, like he came prepared for that girl who always gets emotional. He obviously remembers who I am because he waits for me to get off at my stop, and I have to tell him I’m going one stop further today—to Mushi’s.

There are so many missing pieces to the story, and I plan to continue my investigation by stationing myself in our usual booth until either Zuko or Iroh decide to start explaining. The wait staff looks at me in the same way the bus driver does—like I'm going to spontaneously combust at any moment now. They offer me my usual, but I surprise them, too, but ordering something different.

What can I say? I’m investigating _a murder_ now. I’m living dangerously.

OK, maybe trying the sea urchin was a little bold, especially when I’ve hardly eaten anything of substance for a few days. I am now poking at it with my chopstick, pretending it’s Ozai’s— _ugh,_ I don’t even know what body part it would represent. I think I might throw up.

Odds of this greatly improve when Mai walks in the door, demanding to see Zuko. She is told that he is not here. She accuses the hostess of lying. I said the same thing to the poor woman when I arrived, but surely I didn't make that much of a scene? _Oh God_ , I did put my hand on my hip just like that, though.

I try to look away, but I just can’t. Mai persists, now asking to see Iroh. When her tone shifts from forceful to frantic, I become less suspicious of her as an enemy and start thinking of her as a _source._ She works for Future Fire Technology, so maybe she knows something. But how do I approach her?

I don't have to. She catches my eye on her way out the door. She hesitates as if weighing her options, grimaces at the sight of my food, and finally decides to sit down after letting out a dramatic sigh.

She's really... pretty. I kinda want to scream right now.

"I can't seem to get through to anyone here, but maybe you can help me," she starts.

I nod.

She leans in and props her elbows up on the table. “Listen. Zuko is in big trouble. His dad found out he went to the police. He needs to… I dunno, get out of town for a little while until this shit blows over.”

The _police?_

Mai’s brow furrows under her thick fringe. I guess she wants some kind of response besides my blank stare because she shakes her head and mumbles _stupid peasant_ before reaching into her handbag. She then extends her hand, draws in a shaky breath and places a USB drive on the table in between us. This one is very standard looking—not disguised to give color or moisture to one's lips.

“I can trust you, right?” she asks.

I gape at the device like it’s going to explode, but all I feel is the heat of her intense amber eyes boring into me.

“It’s more evidence for Zuko’s case. I’ve found some really weird stuff since I started working for Future Fire." She takes a cursory glance around the restaurant, and her voice drops to a harsh whisper. "I should NOT be doing this, and I was NEVER here, OK?”

Zuko’s _case?_

She pushes the USB drive all the way across the table to where it’s nestled underneath my elbow. “Keep it hidden, you dumbass.” Then she quickly stands and hisses, “Your food smells like shit,” before slithering away.

She may have inspired a new creature for my stories, an eel with spiky scales like a sea urchin. I debate on the name—Uniagi, perhaps? If only I could retreat into my imaginary world right now…

* * *

I bang on Iroh's apartment door. He finally answers but says that Zuko still has a relentless fever, and he doesn’t want me to catch it. I say I don’t care, I have to see him NOW.

It was no exaggeration. Zuko is really, really sick. Like deliriously feverish. I hold a cold cloth to his forehead. Zuko moans. Iroh paces the floor.

“I had counted on Zuko getting better by now,” he says. “This really interferes with your travel plans.”

“Our...  travel plans?” This is equally unnerving and relieving to me, especially after what Mai said.

“Yes. You’re going to Alaska. I hope it wasn’t too forthright, but I took the liberty of booking your passage.”

"Where in Alaska?" I ask.

"You have family there, right?”

"Yes, I do."

And Zuko does, too.

* * *

Thankfully, the next day is Saturday, and the fever finally breaks. Zuko talks about the crazy dreams he had—something about dragons and a bald kid with blue arrow tattoos. He insists that miso soup and mochi ice cream are needed to nurse him back to full health. Like the dork that I am, I retrieve whatever he asks for and listen attentively to his stories. But it does not go unnoticed that he tends to change the subject when I bring up the USB drive and my mother's files. I haven't told him about Mai's visit, yet.

Our flight for Anchorage leaves Monday morning. I almost forget to call Yue to let her know I won’t be coming into work. The best reason I can come up with is the truth—I feel _threatened_. Now that I have read the files Mai gave me, I contend that Ozai would kill anybody who got in his way. I want to warn Yue, in fact, but I don’t really think she is a target. Future Fire’s donations to the Marine Center serve as a diversion tactic so that no one pays attention to the real work going on behind the scenes.

Zuko must have stumbled upon the same secrets when working there last summer. And so, his father gave him a permanent _reminder_ on his face to never tell anyone. This is my speculation, anyhow, but maybe Zuko will tell me about it someday. He doesn’t owe me an explanation about his scar, but he better tell me what’s in that Painted Lady folder at least.

This is what I know: Zuko’s dad has been selling his VR technology to undisclosed clients off the record, many of whom serve in foreign militaries and governments. The VR headsets offer an enhanced tactical training platform for soldiers.

As if committing high treason wasn't bad enough, the gloves are being formulated for use as actual weapons—flame throwers, of sorts. And the exoskeleton will be reconstructed as high-powered armor. And all of this new technology is being tested in a remote area in central California.

_Death Valley._

* * *

It’s a little complicated to get to my dad’s hometown, but my family normally flies to Seattle, then we connect to Anchorage. From there, a smaller commercial airline transports to outlying villages, and the closest one is King Salmon, a 30-minute drive away. My dad knows a pilot who will fly directly into the Naknek airport, but he operates seasonally, and is often very busy during the summer months.

Today’s travel itinerary confuses me, though. Iroh drops us off at a random train station so we can take an hour-long ride to a different airport across the bay. Then we fly to _Chicago?_ I do the math in my head—a four-hour flight _in the wrong direction_ —then another seven hours to Alaska. As far as I know, our tickets only take us as far as Anchorage. What then? I don’t ask, and Zuko doesn’t offer any explanation, either. In fact, he says very little with his headphones on, hidden beneath his hood. It is going to be a very long day.

When we land in Chicago, and Zuko receives a text from his uncle to change airlines, it hits me. We’re doing all of this to evade Ozai who might be trying to follow us. I pull my own hood over my head and without even realizing it, I grip Zuko’s elbow. There’s a softness in his golden eyes when he looks back at me and warmth in his fingertips when he clasps his hand over mine. It’s the same comfort he gave me that night in his car and a glimpse of the vulnerability we shared at the tide pools.

I shudder and finally admit my biggest secret of all. Because when I say this, it means I’m not in control anymore. “Zuko, I’m scared.”

I have been all along. Ever since Mom died. I thought I could be brave. I thought I was strong, but—

“Me too, Katara.”

He’s not supposed to say that! I want to scream at him to fix this. He’s the one who should be brave and strong and _better_ than this.

I storm off and make a scene right there in the airport even though we’re supposed to be _flying_ under the radar. Zuko doesn’t run after me, though. He always knows when I need my space. He texts me our departure information, and by the time I meet him at the gate, I’ve realized how I misdirected my anger. Voicing my apology is hard because some things we haven’t talked about, yet.

“I’m sorry I got mad and ran off,” I start with a shrug. “B-b-but I’ve been blaming you—your family for my mom’s…”

“Yon Rha,” Zuko says.

“What?”

“He’s the man who—“ He winces. “When your mother’s investigation got too deep, my father hired someone to…”

I swallow hard and nod. I can’t decide if he’s telling me this to get a reprieve from my angry outbursts or so I can have some semblance of closure on the matter. I don’t think it’ll serve either purpose, but the look on his face is an odd mixture of hopefulness and regret. Maybe I can return the favor.

“Ikem,” I say.

“Who?”

“He’s the man—“ I watch his eyes go wide then dart from side to side. “Your mother,” I add with a whisper.

We hold each other’s gaze, both knowing this conversation is too risky to have right here, right now.

I am startled by the announcement on the loudspeaker. “We are now boarding passengers for Air Appa flight 813 nonstop service to Anchorage, Alaska.”


	8. Kiss and Tell

I text my dad once we’re on board, and he is actually already aware of the change in our travel itinerary. I guess it makes sense that Iroh would let him know, but I didn’t even realize they were acquainted. Our family does frequent Mushi’s, but I always thought it was because of my dad’s deep appreciation for quality seafood. My mind now races through all the possibilities—call it investigative journalism in practice… or me basically questioning my entire childhood.

So, did my parents know Iroh before my mom died?

If they knew each other, my dad must consider him an ally since we still dine at his restaurant. Dad says he is wary of Zuko, though, despite allowing me to go on this trip.

Does my dad know anything about Mom’s connection to Ursa?

Even if he didn’t know Iroh or anything about Zuko’s mom, how is my dad OK with all of this? His trust is not easily earned. Yet here _I_ am, caught up in the middle of the Kasai family madness.

But it involves my family, too.

My dad’s words suddenly weigh heavy on me. “I don’t trust _them_ , Katara. But I trust you.”

I apparently have no problem trusting Zuko, because as soon as our plane takes off, I melt into him and fall asleep. I can’t help it. I’m exhausted, he is perpetually warm, and he always smells like...

“Sweet dreams, Moonpeach.”

OK, did that really happen or did I just imagine Zuko saying that and kissing the top of my head?

* * *

The entire seven-hour flight passes like the blink of an eye. I hope I didn’t do something embarrassing like snore or drool on his shoulder. Zuko gently rouses me when the cabin lights come back on just before landing. I try to shake myself from a sleep-induced stupor while he stares at his phone, awaiting instruction of what to do next. I check mine, too, but neither of us have a signal at the moment.

At 11:45 p.m. local time, this particular terminal of the Anchorage airport is nearly empty. After passing through security, we find an isolated cluster of chairs to dump our bags and settle in case we’re stranded here for the night. Zuko curses at his phone, but I switch into wifi mode, and a series of notifications for missed calls and texts soon registers. I read and listen and panic and ponder. Dad instructs to stay put and wait for someone to come get us. And that he and Sokka will meet us in Anchorage tomorrow. And _be careful_ , he warns.

Zuko receives similar messages from Iroh, and while he says, “Don’t worry. Everything will be OK,” the paleness of his face gives him away. It accentuates the scar, and even though I’ve mostly forgotten it’s there, I’m unabashedly staring at it right now.

“What?” he asks, exasperated.

The words slip out before I can stop myself. “How did it happen?”

“ _Really!?_ You want to talk about that here? Right now?” Some color has returned to his cheeks, along with that incredulous expression he wears so often.

What I really want to do… is kiss him. Yes, _here._ Right now.

I start by reaching for the rippled discoloration under his left eye. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. His golden gaze softens—he trusts me, _I think._ I trace the outline of his scar with the pad of my thumb then slowly bring my hand around to stroke the nape of his neck. His breath catches when my lips find their mark. I’ve always been curious about this, but the ridged skin is surprisingly soft.

His eyes flutter closed. “I can’t feel it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I can’t feel anything…”

He’s talking about damaged nerve endings, and whatever else is damaged beyond repair, but I’m determined to make him feel _something_.

I grip the chair’s armrest in between us to brace myself. “What about here, then?”

And just like that, we’re kissing.

It would have been more romantic that day on the beach. Or more commonplace any of the countless times we’ve been in his car together. But now that we’re practically running for our lives, there is a sense of urgency—a neediness. We skip all the shy first kiss business, too. I’m shocked by my own boldness, but more than pleased at how fervently he responds.

And now that I’m finally kissing Zuko, I really don’t want to stop.

He doesn’t, either, if those soft moaning noises he’s making are any indicator. I tug at his bottom lip with my teeth in between insistent open-mouthed kisses before his hands are in my hair, and his hot breath and teasing tongue are _everywhere._

I think we’ve forgotten that we’re in an airport in the middle of the night waiting for some random person to meet us here. Clearly we’ve both wanted this for a while now, but maybe this is not the best time or place. Eventually we come to our senses and reluctantly pull away from each other.

Zuko slumps back in his seat and lets out a breathless, “Wow.”

I nod in agreement, unsure of whether he can see me or not, but if he were looking, he’d find me sporting swollen lips and an unnatural shade of pink. I pretend to browse on my phone to avoid whatever awkward conversation will inevitably happen next. Because it’s me and Zuko, and we’re the world’s biggest dorks. I’d rather not talk, really. Can’t we just make out some more?

Zuko fiddles with his phone, too, for what seems like ages. Then out of the blue, “I was thirteen.”

“Huh?” I shift in my chair to face him.

He points at his scar. “When my father…”

“Oh.” I had completely forgotten. Why did I even ask? “Zuko, you don’t have to—“

“I used to want to be like him,” he continues. “Because I’d take over the company some day, I figured. Our top selling game at the time was Day of Black Sun, this war simulator game, and like any teenager, I was really excited about it. I begged to go to one of the engineering meetings, so Uncle got me in somehow.”

My stomach starts churning with uncertainty. “Iroh worked for Future Fire?”

“Yeah, he quit after… uhh, anyway, Dad’s top engineer, Dr. Bujing, presented a prototype of the Black Sun combat gloves, but they were actual weapons. I was confused by this, so I said a lot of gamers who use the virtual reality gear are just kids. They could get hurt. Then Bujing laughed all creepy like and said _some_ kids don’t play war games for fun.”

The depth of sadness in Zuko’s voice, and the flash of fear in his eyes are now giving me heart palpitations. I grab his hand and gently squeeze it.

“So, it turns out that these new weapons were being sold to a top bidder overseas, to this guy named Zhao who exploited kids to carry out his covert operations. Bujing said these young soldiers lived in hostile environments and had to be tough. No Bay Area brat like me would understand. I was appalled, so I challenged him. I said kids should never be forced to fight, and Future Fire shouldn’t be making weapons anyway.”

Zuko pauses and swallows, then fidgets and sighs. I tell him he doesn’t have to finish, but he shakes his head and draws in a deep breath.

“My father said… I talked too big, just like a typical Silicon Valley kid… and I didn’t know true pain and suffering. He then reminded me that Future Fire was first and foremost an arms dealer… and always will be. In order to learn my place, I was awarded the privilege of testing out the prototypes.”

I gasp because I can only guess where his story is headed next. The pressure building in my chest is almost unbearable. I've never let myself think about it before now, but I can’t fathom the pain he must have experienced.

“A few days later, Dad wanted me to give a demonstration in front of the entire company. I barely knew how the gloves worked, and I didn’t want to fuck it up and embarrass him. I said I needed more time, and I only had the company’s best interest at heart. He called me disrespectful and a coward. He took one glove from me and put it on his right hand. It all happened so fast, but I saw his fist coming at my face, so I raised my left hand to try to block him. No one knew for sure which glove misfired, so the whole thing was written off as an accident. Or what was it? An _equipment malfunction_ , that’s right.”

Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. “Oh, Zuko. That’s—”

“It was no accident, though,” he adds through gritted teeth. “Because my dad came to see me in the hospital and told me it was to teach respect. And that suffering would be my teacher. That’s always his line whenever he—“ Zuko stops short and clears his throat. “Uncle was there that day, and he knows the truth. He was the one who took care of me afterward. Still does.”

“Zuko, I’m—“

“Don’t.”

I know he doesn’t want my apologies or my pity, so I clarify. “I was going to say, I’m _glad_ you told me. Thanks for trusting me. I trust you, too.”

He probably doesn’t have a clue how incredibly huge this confession is for me.

Or… maybe he does? His eyes go wide, even the half-lidded one his father marred so carelessly just to teach a lesson, that _bastard._

“Katara, that… that means a lot. Besides Uncle, I’ve never told anyone before.”

Zuko’s gaze meets mine, and I don’t see a broody boy with a mysterious mark anymore. _Yes,_ he will always have the scar and its horrific story, but he is beautiful to me—strong, enduring, and trustworthy. The wounds run deep, but he is not calloused. He is _healing_.

This makes me feel safe with him. And I haven’t felt that way in a long time.

He also makes me feel something else, and now that kissing is an option…

Zuko yelps when I launch myself from my seat and into his lap. Armrest be damned! Do not get in the way of me and my man! That’s right, I just claimed him. Sokka is probably going to freak and swear off meat for a week when he finds out. I entertain no further thought about my overprotective brother as I plunge my tongue into the soft warmth of Zuko’s mouth. _Mmmmm._

“Hmm-mmm.” Someone coughs behind us.

Heat rises to my cheeks as I scramble to my feet. Zuko leans forward and buries his face in his hands. The intruder just laughs.

“Hey, I know you.” I point with a shaky finger. “You were at Iroh’s July Fourth party.”

“Yes, I was,” the man replies. “Some of your uncle’s buddies were taking bets on the first kiss. Bumi said before the party, Jeong Jeong said during the party, and Iroh said not yet because it would take a long time for Zuko to work up the nerve. Who won the bet, I wonder?”

“Well… _I_ initiated the first kiss. So… I win!” I fold my arms across my chest.

Zuko presses his fingers to his temples and rolls his eyes. “Katara, this is Noren.” He then tips his head toward the man. “And Noren, this is Katara.”


	9. Starstruck

I wake up the next morning with images of fire lingering from my nightmares, and four sinister faces looming over my bedside. A rise of panic seizes me, and a scream nearly escapes my throat when I remember where I am. The masks on the wall in Noren’s guest room are still creeping me out, though, so I roll over and reach for my phone. Without Zuko’s sweatshirt to comfort me, I resort to another one of my pathetic daily rituals. I scroll through every text he’s ever sent me. We exchange a few messages now, and I wonder where he ended up spending the night.

The door slowly creaks open, and I pull the covers up to my chest. I’m dressed decently enough, I suppose, and I secretly hope my unannounced visitor is Zuko. Of course, it isn’t, because he would most certainly knock first.

“Hiya, remember me?” A blur of pink pajamas and dark brown pigtails enters the room.

“Oh. Yeah. Hi there, Kiyi.” She is so close to me now that I catch a whiff of maple syrup and something else vaguely familiar. _Mmmm_ , pancakes for breakfast?

The young girl’s attention shifts to the mysterious décor on the wall, and a wide grin spreads across her face. “I like the dragon empress the best.”

I rotate to look at the masks again, and my eyes are immediately drawn to a blue and white one bearing intricate tribal carvings.

“That’s the Blue Spirit,” Kiyi announces. “Is it your favorite?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Why does everything remind me of Mom? I sigh and bury my face in my pillow, so she won’t see the tears forming. Of course, the fabric smells like moonpeaches.

“It’s my mom’s favorite,” she says without skipping a beat.

Kiyi smells like moonpeaches, too. I bolt straight up in bed. “Is your mom here?” I ask.

Noren knocks softly at the door. “Kiyi, sweetheart. Don’t bother our guest. She had a long day traveling and needs her rest.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

Once the child leaves, I launch to my feet and quickly dress myself. I stop short before opening the door, though, because I can hear their conversation outside in the hallway.

“And what is our rule about talking about Mommy?” Noren asks his daughter.

“To not to,” Kiyi replies.

“Good girl.”

“But when is she coming home?”

“Soon, Kiyi. Very soon.”

“But Daddy, I think Mommy would like Zuko and Katara. They are nice.”

“I know, sweetheart, but they are not staying here long. We are just helping Uncle Iroh.”

“Mommy likes to help people, too.”

“Kiyi… that’s enough.” Noren’s tone is weary, like they’ve had this conversation before.

* * *

Dad and Sokka are not scheduled to arrive until later this afternoon, so I ask if I can show Zuko around Anchorage since I’ve been here several times before. Kiyi keeps slipping up by talking about _Mommy_ , so Noren seems relieved by my suggestion. Good, he’s not suspicious of my plan, then.

I was able to get the information I needed from my perfectly innocent, yet very obliging five-year-old accomplice. I did a little snooping—I mean, _investigating_ around their house, too. Zuko would disapprove if he knew what I was doing. He keeps making these comments about how normal this family seems, and what a loving father Noren is.

Sure. Normal and loving and _LYING_.

“You weren’t lying to me, were you Katara?” Zuko frowns when we step off the bus.

“No, why?” I say sweetly. OK well, sorta. Not _really._

“I thought you said we were going to the library.”

“There is a library somewhere on the Northern Pacific University campus, I’m sure.” My voice breaks, and I’ve given myself away. Zuko can read me just as well as I can read him.

“Katara… what are you up to? Where are we going?”

I make up some fluff. “Yue said this was a great school with lots of emphasis on ecology and stuff.” Hmm, maybe I would be better at public relations than investigative reporting. Then I remember a piece I read in one of the forgotten files on the mystery USB drive. “My mom wrote an article about it. I just… wanted to see it.”

Zuko laces our fingers together and pulls me toward him. I shudder as he kisses my temple and whispers in my ear, “If it’s anything to do with your mom, then I’m right there with you.”

“Thanks.”

I sure hope the feeling is mutual.

* * *

At the student center, I send Zuko to buy me a NPU sweatshirt at the campus bookstore while I interrogate the front desk clerk about summer class offerings.

“I’m sorry, miss, but Professor Noriko is not teaching here this session.”

“Are you sure? Check the English department listings,” I persist.

The man glowers at me from behind the counter. “She doesn’t teach English, young lady. She teaches social justice.”

“OK… so when is her social justice class?”

“Not. Offered. This. Session.”

The man is visibly frustrated, but aren’t my intentions obvious by now? “ _Ugh_ , so when is it offered!?”

“Are you even a student here, miss? You look a little… young.” He stands to survey me, but I won’t fall for that intimidation tactic.

“Not yet! But I will be… and… you’re not being very helpful! Maybe I don’t want to come here after all.” I stomp my foot and put my hands on my hips, like I’m scolding Sokka for leaving his stinky socks lying around. OK, maybe it’s not the _most_ mature response, but he did peg me. I’m only fifteen, dammit.

Surprisingly, he relents. “Fine. She’s teaching a fellowship at Ba Sing Se University for the summer. Happy now?”

“Ba Sing Se?” Zuko interjects. “That’s on the other side of the world.”

I didn’t see him walk up, but probably because tears are starting to blur my vision. How could we come this close, yet still be so far away?

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, gently grazing my elbow with feather light fingertips.

I shake my head and pull my arm away. “Nothing. Let’s just get out of here.”

Once outside the building, I plan to storm off like I always do, and I expect Zuko to let me, like he always does. But he firmly grabs my wrist instead. When I resist, he pushes me back into a nearby tree. Something burns inside me, but the words, _LET ME GO_ , die in my throat when I see Zuko’s face. I can’t read this expression AT ALL.

I think it might be… desire? _Oh fuck_ , now I’m really on fire.

He kisses me, _thank God_ , but painstakingly slow and sweet despite his vice grip on my wrist and his weight pinning me to the tree.

He steps away suddenly, and sadness returns to his eyes. “Katara, I—“

I lean against the rough bark and try to steady myself. Every part of my body is thrumming with a sensation I’ve never felt this strongly before. I debate between shortened breaths on whether I should run from this or tackle him to the ground for more of those amazing, addictive kisses.

I tilt my head to the side. Zuko looks almost shy now, and I wonder why. Then, he reaches into the bag from the campus bookstore he’s been holding this whole time.

“I bought you something.” He extends shaky hands to reveal a necklace.

I gasp. The pendant is a whalebone carving suspended by a velvety blue ribbon, very similar to the necklace my dad made for my mom except that instead of a wave pattern, it has… stars? It looks like a constellation—maybe the Big Dipper, if my memory serves me correctly.

“It’s supposed to be a bear,” he says. “The school mascot… I think?” He shrugs then gestures toward my neck. “May I?”

I bite my lip and nod. When Zuko’s fingers brush against my skin, chills run up and down my spine. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“They didn’t have a sweatshirt, like you asked for,” he continues. “But since you like cuddling with my sweatshirt, I thought you might like this?”

I have mere seconds to feel embarrassed that he somehow knows about the sweatshirt thing before he pulls out a fluffy white stuffed animal. I helplessly and girlishly squeal when soft fur tickles the raised flesh on my neck where Zuko had just touched me.

“It’s also supposed to be a bear,” he mumbles. “But I think it looks like a dog.”

“A polar dog!” I declare. I laugh at his furrowed brow of utter confusion. Maybe someday I will share my fictional world with Zuko. “What else is in the bag?” I point at the bulge in the bottom of it.

“Um, you might want to sit down for this next one.”

Alright then. First we had sentimental, then sappy, and now… serious. We settle comfortably in the grass, and I wonder, if he’s lavishing me with gifts and all that, does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend? We haven’t really properly talked about it, yet.

Zuko clears his throat and hands me a book. “I… saw this on a display near the checkout line.”

 _Everything_ comes to a halt—those typical teenage feelings of friendly flirting and hormonal hopefulness, all notions of _normalcy_. I skim a trembling thumb across the title, “Blue Spirit Crashing.”

“Is it… a collection of your mom’s poems?” I ask, noting the author’s name. If so, this confirms my suspicions about Professor Noriko.

“N-n-no. It’s… a story about your mom.”

“ _What!?_ ” I flip through the book frantically, but I don't know where to begin. I can't even comprehend what I'm looking at right now. Without reading the words, none of it makes sense, of course.

Nothing has _ever_ made sense about _any_ of this. Especially Zuko’s next statement.

“I… read it already. Or well… most of it.”

“You had time to… just now?”

“No. I read the draft.” He turns away from me and tucks his knees under his chin. “In the Painted Lady folder.”

“Oh.”

“So… this Noriko woman. She must be… _my_ mom.” Zuko lets out a strained and awkward laugh. “Or impersonating her.”

“I think she is,” I say. “That’s why I wanted to come here.”

“How did you know?”

“I read about it. In the Blue Spirit file.” And since we’re dropping bombshells, I might as well tell him about Noren, too. Or is it... Ikem?

But Zuko launches himself to his feet and shoots me with another expression I’ve never seen before.

_Rage._

“And you didn’t think to tell me about this!?” he yells.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know she was in this city… or at this school until…” I start sobbing uncontrollably, because he looks so hurt and angry, and I was just trying to help. “I wanted… to be sure… I didn’t want to… give you false hope… and Iroh said that…”

“ _Uncle!?_ He was in on it, too!?”

I think about running away for the third time, but we are finally talking about this, a conversation long overdue. It would be better if he wasn't shouting, though.

But this time, Zuko does the running. And I let him go.

It’s a beautiful summer day in Alaska, and I’m spending it sprawled out on the grass in the middle of some college campus crying. I wish I was simply having boy problems, but it's more than that. Zuko is the first person I've _ever_ gotten this close to—and I’ve broken his trust. I also miss Mom so, so much. But I can’t bring myself to open that book.

I hug my polar dog tightly with one hand and clutch my new necklace with the other. I notice a rough indention on the backside of the pendant, so I unclasp it and read the inscription. It’s the name of the constellation—the “great bear.”

_Ursa._


	10. Going Out

This discovery inspires me to get up off my ass and find out more information about Noriko—no, _Ursa_. I’m still hesitant to read _Crashing Blue Spirit_ for fear of what it might reveal that I’m not ready to accept, but according to the author’s bio in the back, Professor Noriko has written several publications. So I will be making that trip to the university library after all.

Someone else had the same idea.

Zuko is tucked away in a nook of the library’s research section with a stack of books, the same ones I’m looking for, no doubt. He doesn’t acknowledge me, so now what? I should apologize. No, I should leave him alone. He should uncover the truth on his own. He doesn’t need me. It’s not like I’m a real investigator anyway, who was I kidding?

I only make it to the end of the aisle in my attempt at retreat.

“Katara?”

I don’t turn around when I speak. “I wasn’t following you. I was just—“

“I’m sorry,” he says softly—because that’s his usual demeanor, not because we’re in a library.

He has nothing to be sorry for, but he’s probably used to taking the blame. I know I should set things straight, but the shelves are narrowing, and the room is too confining.

I don’t understand what I’m feeling because this building is huge, but I need to get out. _Now._

But then, the sun is too bright, and the wind has a bite. I want to run as far and long as I can, but I am so tired. I am trapped—spinning in circles, falling, crashing…

Right into Zuko.

When he catches me, I bury my forehead in the cleft of his shoulder and pound my fists on his chest. I am furious at myself for crying _again_ because I vowed to stop this nonsense and actually _do_ something constructive. Why is Zuko the one comforting _me_? His father abused him, his mother abandoned him, and I’m altogether useless to him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me and rubs gentle circles on my back like he did the first time he gave me a ride home. Because he knew even then what I needed before I would allow myself to receive it. I pull away, overcome by a sudden wave of alarming clarity.

“Zuko, what do you need?” I may not have his gift of intuition, but I also never thought to ask.

He flashes the smallest of smiles. “I need you.”

That’s not the answer I expected. “But I’m too… needy.”

“It feels good to be needed,” he says with a shrug. “It’s like… what I do matters to you. It sounds stupid, but I’m not used to that. Having someone who cares.”

“I do care, Zuko. I care a lot.” _About you_ is implied here, but maybe I should say it out loud. Because during my personal pity party earlier, I promised to be more upfront with him, too.

“I’m sorry I took off,” he continues. “I just... I thought that my mom would have…” He clinches his jaw and sighs dejectedly. “I thought I mattered to her. I thought she cared. I guess I was wrong.”

“We don’t know for sure. Maybe she stayed away to keep you safe.”

He points at his scar. “Yeah right. Safe.”

Tears well up again, and I realize this is why I’ve been crying so much lately. I’ve been craving _safe_. It’s something you’re supposed to feel around family, but I haven’t since Mom died. When I’m with Zuko, he grants me that sense of security I’ve been missing, but when I look at his face, I hardly feel it’s fair. The same man who hurt him so badly is hunting us now. Zuko has never felt safe. He probably never will.

Zuko interrupts my reverie by stroking my dampened cheeks and lightly kissing my forehead. “Can we go somewhere to talk? Like a tea shop.”

Funny. I didn’t know Zuko liked tea.

* * *

He’s not satisfied by the Yelp ratings for the tea shop near the NPU campus, so we hop on the bus to find “the best tea in town.”

“Only five stars will do,” he says with a smirk.

“You do know that tea is just hot leaf juice,” I tease.

His expression turns solemn. “Whatever you do, don’t ever say that in front of my uncle.”

“Why?”

“Because he really likes tea,” Zuko replies. “And… he really likes you. Don’t give him a reason not to.”

I straighten up in my seat and give a fake salute. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

He rolls his eyes and _ACK!_ He tickles me! Right there on the bus! Oh boy, is he gonna get it now!

We become that touchy teenage couple that everyone finds annoying. We’re even getting disapproving looks from a group of older women sitting toward the front. I’m sorta lovin’ it. I mean, let the kids whose lives are in mortal danger actually have some fun, OK?

What I love even more is Zuko’s smile. It is so pure.

Hot damn, I think I’m falling for this man.

I literally go weak in the knees when we arrive at the tea shop. Zuko leans toward me and shows me the Yelp reviews on his phone.

“Only four stars for tea, actually. But five for the view. What do you think?”

I swallow a few times to release my tied-up tongue. “I’ll have jasmine, please.”

He quirks his brow. “Uhh, I’m sure they have that blend.”

He scans the scenery, and something familiar passes across his features. At the tide pools, I read it as _distance_. But this time, I see it as _loss_. The ocean is tied to his mother’s disappearance somehow. I figure he brought me here because he knew I would love it. But I also wonder if he’s looking for some reconciliation, too.

Tea is served with a side of awkward silence. Is this back-and-forth normal for all couples early in their relationship or are we just special because of our circumstances?

Are we even a couple?

That would be a good place to start. “So, umm, Zuko? What are we? You know… like… to each other?”

I expect Zuko to avoid the question, but he doesn’t at all. He reaches across the table and places his hands over mine. “Katara, I really like you. And if things were normal, I would ask you out. I wouldn’t even think twice.”

“If things were normal, I would say yes. But… they’re not normal, are they?”

“No. Someone in my family _killed_ someone in yours. We can’t just ignore that. And if something happened to you, Katara, because of me…”

“Zuko, _you_ didn’t kill my mom, and I don’t blame you for it. Your dad is seriously fucked up, and I want to help you take him down! Not just for what he did to my family, but what he did to yours, too. We’re in this together no matter what… as friends or… as something else… but I don’t think friends usually kiss and stuff, so…”

I am flush and rambling and would rather be kissing than talking. Why is Zuko looking at me like I’m crazy?

“You’re crazy, Katara.”

_Oh._

“Let’s go to the beach,” he says suddenly.

Now who’s the crazy one?

* * *

The beach _is_ nice, but it’s getting late, and we should head back before Dad and Sokka arrive.

Zuko has something else in mind, though.

“Can I read you a little from the Blue Spirit book?”

I’m taken aback by this suggestion, but I oblige. He leans against a rock, and I tuck myself under his arm, relishing his warmth. Alaskan summers are nice, as I recall, but coastal winds always carry the chill of the Pacific current.

“Your mom was amazing,” Zuko starts.

I let out a sigh of relief. I didn’t think the book would convey anything otherwise, but uncovering so many secrets in such a short amount of time has taken a toll on me.

“When her son was born in Alaska, among family members from their native tribe, everyone congratulated her on the birth of a fearless warrior. In California two years later, when she shared her pink bundle with mostly strangers, everyone congratulated her on the birth of a beautiful princess. Kya made two promises to her daughter that day. One, she would teach her the ways of their people. And two, she would teach her to fight.

It was likely no coincidence that at age three, the young girl’s favorite game was to adorn herself in tribal paint and play ‘warrior princess.’ It amused Kya, but her greatest hope for her daughter’s fiery passion was finding a cause worth fighting for.”

I place my hand on Zuko’s forearm, signaling for him to stop. “So, this is a biography… about my mom?”

“Yeah, it starts from her early career, when she covered the Valdez oil spill. As best I can tell from the Painted Lady files, that’s how our mothers met. My mom reached out because she wanted to write a story about her.”

“Oh. I thought it was because your mom knew about what your dad was doing and wanted my mom to investigate?” I muse.

“I think it was the other way around—your mom knew first about my dad then told my mom. Maybe something my mom said in one of their interviews for the biography prompted the investigation. But the report your mom compiled was dated the same day my mom went missing.”

“Do you think she left because your dad found out somehow?”

“I don’t know. He knew, though, because he sent someone to… take care of it.”

“Right. Yon Rha.” My inner warrior princess flares at the mentioning of Ozai’s hired henchman who killed my mother.

“I turned everything in to the police. Your mom’s files were very thorough. I even gave my own statement.” Zuko’s breath hitches. “I spoke out against my father. If this goes to trial, I’ll probably have to testify, I don’t know if I—“

He stops abruptly and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Even though I am reading over his shoulder, he dictates the text messages out loud.

“Noren says your dad and brother are at his house. And so is Uncle.”

“Not Noren,” I correct. “Ikem.”


	11. Sweet Little Lies

Zuko pushes himself to a standing position too abruptly, and I scramble to get my feet underneath me. He'll bolt again, I bet, but instead a silence just hangs in the salty sea air between us long enough to sting. I see the realization in his eyes, the drop of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw, and I want to take it back—take it _all_ back, if I could.

"So Ikem, he's—"

I nod.

"And Kiyi—"

I shrug. She could be Ikem's daughter and not Ursa's, but there is an undeniable resemblance between the feisty five-year-old and her would-be half-brother. "Zuko, I—"

A full range of emotions passes across his face in a matter of seconds, and whatever I intended to say next simply dies in my throat. His rage flares, but is quickly replaced by piercing hurt and confusion that penetrates to my core. Then he settles on that distant expression—decidedly the worst one of all. He's shut me out again.

We didn't revisit the whole boyfriend-girlfriend conversation, but Zuko is probably right. I am crazy for hoping we could make it could work. There is too much uncertainty, too many—

"Too many lies," Zuko says and resolutely shakes his head. "I'm done with all the lies."

I had been thinking _secrets_ , not lies. The truth is there, just hidden. We are supposedly on this journey to find answers together, but there hasn't been enough time to talk about everything while we're running for our lives. Yet, I've apparently betrayed his trust by keeping secrets from him—that is, if he ever really trusted me at all. _I_ was the one making confessions back at the airport but had only assumed our feelings were mutual.

I should tell him what I know before we head back to Noren— _err_ , _Ikem's_ house, but now he is intently focused on his phone, punching at the screen with unnecessary force. I pull my phone out to check the bus schedule and notice that I've missed two messages from Dad. He says he's at Ikem's, which I already knew, and is worried, so no surprises there, except…

What the—? _Dad_ knows about Ikem?

I feign ignorance and text back, "I'm sorry, but who is Ikem? I don't recall visiting anyone by that name."

He responds, "I meant Noren," which strikes me as odd, so I half expect him to call my bluff and add, "But you knew what I meant." I stare at the words on the screen, and suddenly I want to scream. Zuko is right. IT'S ALL LIES!

"Come on. The White Lotus has service here," Zuko says briskly. "I've called us a car."

His fingers interlace with mine, and he leads me up the rocky beach pathway at a rather quickened pace. I've heard of The White Lotus before, an app-based rideshare service, but I've never used it. Headquartered in the Bay Area, it's widely popular there, although I had no idea its footprint expanded as far as Alaska.

 _Of course_ , the driver would happen to be Aleut, too, and recognizes our shared heritage. His chattiness has robbed me of any chance to talk to Zuko, to at least warn him that we're likely walking into a situation where his uncle, my dad, and Ikem are all on the same side. I mean, I _think_ we're on their side, too, just purposely left in the dark on a lot of things. Whether it is lies or light, there is much to be revealed.

The scene upon our arrival should not have shocked me, honestly, but whatever had been keeping me together through all of this, completely shatters. Zuko barges in the door, heads straight for Ikem, and shoves the man against the wall. I crash into Dad's arms despite my earlier misgivings. Kiyi screams.

"Where is my mother?" Zuko demands.

"Nephew, now let's just—

With one hand fisted in Ikem's shirt, Zuko rounds on his uncle and points a shaky finger at him. "Or how about y _ou_ tell me where she is?"

Iroh's hands shoot up in a placating gesture. "Ursa is safe, and that's what matters! But not everyone is safe, and that's why we're here. _Please_ , we need to tell you something important."

At this, the façade breaks. Iroh catches Zuko with a fierce embrace while Ikem skirts several paces away. A sigh, a shudder, a faint _I'm sorry_. It's a moment that shouldn't have an audience, yet here we all are. Even though I'm enveloped in strong, safe arms, I wish I could disappear— _escape_. I bury my face into Dad's chest where my tears have already dampened the fabric of his shirt. The lingering scent of moonpeaches only makes me cry harder.

Sokka emerges from a corner of the room and gently addresses a trembling Kiyi. "Hey firecracker, weren't you gonna show me some cool masks in your room or something?" The young girl sniffles, then accepts the hand he's offering, and they disappear down the hallway together.

 _Can I go with them?_ I silently plead. This day started so innocently for me with Kiyi— _and the smell of moonpeaches_ … talking about masks on the wall— _and The Blue Spirit Crashing._

Nothing could have prepared me for the series of events that would happen today. And nothing could have prepared me for what Iroh is about to say. A simultaneous, collective movement is made toward the couches and chairs, because news like this is better taken while sitting down.

"There's been an incident." The old man clears his throat or chokes on his words, it's hard to tell which. "At the Marine Science Center. It caught fire last night, and—"

My dad takes the cue and continues, "Most of the animals are safe. Yue was able to set them free into the bay before the place was engulfed in flames. But because she went back to rescue them, she didn't make it out in time herself. It's uhh, all over the news. Some guy named Hahn has been interviewed, and they're looking for you two. There will be a full-scale investigation because they suspect arson as the cause."

I can barely form thoughts much less words. I somehow manage to hear Zuko speaking past the pounding in my ears.

"Are we suspects?" he asks.

Iroh shakes his head.

"But my father is behind this."

"Zuko, don't—"

"Come on, Uncle, you and I both know what he's capable of." Zuko catches my eye for the briefest of moments. "I think we all know, so _please_. There's no use sugar-coating anything."

I fight the urge to become a self-declared Sugar Queen—just a normal, blissfully unaware almost-sixteen-year-old. In my steadfast quest for answers, I hadn't fully weighed the impact of the truth, past or present. I sure as hell didn't think about who else might suffer the consequences.

Zuko voices my very next thought, "This is all my fault."

"It's _not,_ " my dad counters. "You can spend years consumed by self blame, but it won't bring any more or less honor to the deceased's name. Seek justice, yes, but not at the expense of safety."

These words hit home for me, but Zuko doesn't skip a beat. "But it should have been me. Ozai probably went to the Marine Center looking for me. I turned him into the police! _My own father_. I gave them Mom's files and The Painted Lady's, too. It won't matter, though, because all of that Death Valley stuff will be covered up by now. He goes around terrorizing everyone— _killing people_ even, but because he neatly covers his tracks, it will never end. He's too powerful, too connected. As the primary benefactor for the Marine Science Center foundation, he'll probably give some bullshit speech about how he is so sad for the loss. Meanwhile, there is no proof of his madness. No one knows what Future Fire Industries does behind closed doors!"

"Mai does!" I blurt out suddenly. How could I fucking forget something so important? Zuko raises a brow in confusion, and with all eyes trained on my every movement, I rummage through my purse to procure the USB drive she had given me the other night at Mushi's. "Mai put some files on here about the weapons Future Fire is making," I explain breathlessly. "She gave it to me before we left, and everything has happened so fast since then. I'm sorry I didn't—"

Iroh reaches out to take the device from me. "I will personally make sure this gets to the authorities. You kids have dealt with so much already."

"Make a copy of it first, Uncle," Zuko suggests. "You never know with my father."

"Oh believe me, I know," Iroh says solemnly. "I know far too well."

I shudder at the thought of what Iroh must know and wonder how he's managed to evade his brother's wrath or influence. Then I remember that Zuko said his uncle worked for Future Fire at one point. A flicker of mistrust stirs inside me. _What if_ —

"We've been tracked."

I'm beginning to hate when Zuko finishes my inner thoughts aloud. Because most of what I'm thinking is pretty dark these days.

Zuko, looking very pale, points to his phone and clarifies, "I don't know why Mai is offering to help again, but she warns that Ozai somehow knows we're here." He runs a hand through his hair and mumbles to himself, "He'll kill her next for tipping us off."

My dad asks the hard question. "Iroh, can you think of any way he could have known that you sent the kids here? Or that you were coming here yourself?"

The older man furrows his brow. "I was quite intentional with the travel itineraries, and the paper trail should have been minimal. But like my nephew said, Ozai is very well-connected, so the possibility exists—"

"It was me." Zuko now appears paler than pale. Impossibly pale. Is he going to pass out? " _Fuck_ , I wasn't thinking. I was so careful to use cash everywhere just like you said, Uncle. But the White Lotus… I used the app to get us a car. I haven't used it since… and it's still—"

Iroh nods in understanding, his expression grim. "I see."

My dad looks back and forth between them, bewildered, and I sense the same seedling of mistrust taking root in him that I had felt earlier. It would help if he actually had a clue what we're talking about. The explanation quickly follows, not that it sets anyone at ease.

"My brother's credit card is still tied to a taxi service, of sorts, that Zuko can access from his phone," Iroh says with a sigh. "He used it often last summer when he was interning at Future Fire and did not have a car of his own, yet. When Zuko came to live with me just recently, I checked for any tracking devices Ozai might have placed on the phone, and we deleted a few suspicious apps. But we must have overlooked The White Lotus."

"So where are we going?"

No one had noticed that Sokka had rejoined the group. No one has an answer for him, either.

"So… the megalomaniac is chasing us… we gotta go somewhere he can't find us," Sokka continues. "The Bahamas would be nice and warm. Hmm, maybe… Spain? Or how about… Japan?"

"Don't get too excited there, Sokka," Dad intones. "We can't really afford—"

"Pick anywhere, and I'll send you there," Iroh says, then persists when my dad starts to shake his head. "Hakoda, it's the least I can do… after all the grief my family has caused yours."

Iroh then turns to Ikem, another person who's been forgotten in the mix. "I trust you have a safe place for you and Kiyi?"

"My parents live in a remote village in the Yukon Territory. We'll go visit them until this whole thing blows over."

Ikem's response surprises me. Why wouldn't they go see Ursa? Is it too risky?

Well, I'll take that risk. No more lies. No more sugar-coating.

"Thanks for the offer, Uncle Iroh," I say. "We'd like to go to Ba Sing Se. And we want Zuko to come with us."


End file.
